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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334225">monsters like me are out of your head</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brekkers/pseuds/brekkers'>brekkers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Dom/sub Undertones, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Living Together, M/M, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication, Name-Calling, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Self-Loathing, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Smut, Supernatural Elements, Swearing, Symbiotic Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampire!Andrés, Werewolf Turning, Werwewolf!Martin, fangs, hardcore denial as a coping mechanism, shotgun said this was the Bodyguard AU but gothic lmao</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:09:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brekkers/pseuds/brekkers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the mid-1800s. Martín is a werewolf. Andrés is a vampire.</p><p>Mortal enemies from the start.</p><p>Due to certain circumstances, they find themselves living together.</p><p>It goes exactly the way you think it would.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa &amp; Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>138</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. bad moon rising</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>benched everything else to write this for spooky season. i initially planned to write this for halloween but obviously that did not pan out. lmao. oh well this universe is so fun to write i'm just going to enjoy it. deadlines be damned.</p><p>contains a lot of monster elements and themes. tags will be updated as needed.</p><p>to save me the time from wordbuilding, this is set in the 1800s. around 1870 onwards. very dracula.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martín knew there were certain eccentricities that came with being a werewolf. Certain things he eventually had to give up, to sacrifice, to adjust, to change. </p><p>In his first few years as a young lycan, the hardest thing he had to accept was the Turning. Even now, having lived with the curse for nearly two decades, the coming of a full moon still stirs up a disquieting sense of dread inside him, still manages to make him uneasy, nervous, <em> afraid</em>. He <em> loathes </em>it. </p><p>The process of changing from man to beast is an excruciatingly slow and painful one. It involves a lot of skin getting torn apart, joints being bent and twisted, and bones breaking into themselves as his body <em> literally remodels itself </em> into that of a monster’s.</p><p>And while he can’t remember what he does when he’s in wolf form, he certainly remembers the pain of the transformation. Each time he wakes up in some poor farmer’s field, naked and bloody as the day he was born, he can feel that <em> ache </em> deep in his bones, that exhaustion and toll that the change had inflicted upon his body. And it never gets easier — somehow, the pain only gets more unbearable as the years go by. </p><p>He had tried then, early on, to find a cure for his disease. For unlike witchcraft that was taught, and vampirism that was eternal and irreversible, lycanthropy on the other hand had a known remedy — a special, nameless concoction of night phlox seeds, valerian sprigs, and other strange but practical ingredients. </p><p>He was disgustingly optimistic in those days, gathering up the necessary materials, carefully archiving them in a tiny wooden box that he hid under his bed, as though those items meant more to him than his weight in gold. And they did, of course they did. </p><p>Yet he found out much too quickly that it was a hopeless pursuit.</p><p>Even after years of research, he still hadn’t come close to finding the missing ingredient — the rare and elusive red Wolfsbane, its distinct blood-red color making it highly sought after nearly impossible to find. </p><p>Mirko, a giant Serbian wolf from his pack and the closest thing Martín has to a friend, had told him how the red Wolfsbane contained incredibly strong magic, with the juices from its flowers alone supposedly powerful enough to wake the dead from their sleep.</p><p>And as Mirko shared this with him, Martín’s resolve gradually began to wither away, until one day, he told himself that this disappointment was just one out of a thousand things he had to learn to live with. Another thing he had to grow used to, to anticipate. He was a werewolf now, and there will be more strangeness to come. The sooner he accepts it, the better off he’d be. </p><p>Did he expect living with a vampire to be one of those strange things? Certainly not. </p><p>Least of all when the vampire in question was that pompous, bloodsucking <em> bastard </em> by the name of Andrés de Fonollosa. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>For as long as they’ve known each other (twenty long years and counting), Andrés and Martín have never gotten along. <em> Never</em>. They were inherent enemies after all, destined to make each other’s lives as miserable as possible. And Martín would be <em> damned </em>if he lets Andrés get the best of him. </p><p>Their first encounter had been an awful and memorable one, serving as the perfect microcosm for how their whole rivalry grew and festered throughout the years. </p><p>Martín had been <em> perfectly fucking civil</em>, as far as he was concerned, when the vampire who had recently moved into the monastery just north of the village, suddenly showed up at their little Hallow’s Eve celebration, unexpected and uninvited, capturing the attention of mortals and immortals alike.</p><p>At that point, Martín had already heard stories of the elusive vampire. He had moved into the monastery only a few days back, and already, he was burning his way through the female population like fire burns through kindlewood. </p><p>The village girls whispered that Andrés was <em> quite </em> the lover. They would giggle, in their stupid, high-pitched voices, while they exchanged lurid details of how exactly Andrés seduced and bedded them, with talks of how much of a <em> romantic </em> he was, sweeping them off their feet. How <em> dashing </em> and <em> mysterious </em> and <em> phenomenal </em> he was in bed. And to Martín, who only heard their conversations in passing, scoffed at their girlish fantasies, their dreamy exaggerations. </p><p><em> Obviously</em>, the vampire had bewitched them in some way, to make himself seem more attractive than he actually was, clouding their vision with phantasmic illusions. And they would never be able to tell either — stupid, oblivious human beings that they were. But as a werewolf, Martín was certain he was immune to such charms.</p><p>However, upon seeing Andrés that night, dressed in an exquisitely tailored, black double-vested frock, looking like he’d stepped out of renaissance painting, Martín realized with a fluttery feeling in his chest, that the girls weren’t exaggerating at all. </p><p>He was <em> gorgeous, </em><em>powerful, beautiful. </em>Even from afar, he had a certain presence about him, commanding and captivating, drawing those around him like moths to a flame.</p><p>The very personification of carnal <em> sin</em>.</p><p>Martín was known far and wide for his appetite when it came to handsome men. So naturally, he had approached Andrés where he had stood alone, slithering through the crowd, eager to make his acquaintance. And hopefully, his night.</p><p>Though there were no rules against it per se, interspecies relations were a rare occurrence, not commonly practiced due to the tensions between the opposing supernatural groups. And those who <em> did </em> decide to copulate were regarded as strange, treacherous, and treated as outsiders from their own kind, branded as <em> touched by the enemy. </em></p><p>Yet at that moment, Martín was willing to risk it, to <em> try</em>, wondering what it would feel like to have those fangs grazing at his neck. To have them sink into his skin, to <em> bite</em>. </p><p>To be claimed and branded as <em> touched by Andrés. </em></p><p>But it was <em> Andrés </em> who had been needlessly rude, mocking his clothes, his companions, his accent, and calling him a <em> mutt</em>, before running off with some doe-eyed fledgeling witch named Ariadna. </p><p>And Martín, surrounded by on-lookers who had witnessed the whole thing (eyes regarding him with either pity or mockery) had left the gathering soon after that, thoroughly embarrassed and seething with <em> anger</em>, <em> distaste, </em>and with a newfound hatred for that rotten, bloodsucking, narcissistic son of a bitch, Andrés de Fonollosa. </p><p>Thus their bitter rivalry began.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Martín maintains that it had nothing to do with the fact that werewolves and vampires have long been mortal enemies — their great and ancient feud stretching so far back in time, he presumes neither side even remembers how it all began. </p><p>And it didn’t matter either that Andrés was an <em> aristocrat</em>, rich and sophisticated and spoiled, while Martín was a <em> nobody,</em> forced to spend most of his life doing odd jobs with meager wages, using the money he earned to put himself through college. And he did it too, finishing with a fancy Engineering degree, only to have his prospects snatched away by an unfortunate encounter in the woods and a bite on his wrist.</p><p>No, none of that played any significant part in Martín’s disdain for the bloodsucking bastard. He postulates that even if they had somehow met when they were both still humans, Martín would have hated him anyway. </p><p>Andrés, with his pretentious three piece suits and hateful sneer, looking at people like they were no better than the dirt beneath his boots. </p><p>Andrés, who paraded the streets with a different woman each night, passing by Martín without so much a glance, all because Martín’s ratty, faded overalls could never compete with the luminescent <em> shine </em>of his fancy, painstakingly embellished waistcoats.</p><p>Andrés, who for some strange reason had asked Martín to meet him, sending a courier to deliver a carefully written note. The paper was thick and scented, and the words, written in the most pretentious script handwriting he’d ever laid eyes on, read: </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Meet me by the monastery. Three o’clock. It is important that you come.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tell no one else. — A </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He told Mirko, of course, and Mirko had said: “Perhaps it is a trap.”</p><p>Martín considered it, pursing his lips. “Do you think he’ll break the accords just to kill me?” he snickered. “Seems kind of irresponsible, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Vampires are not known for their kindness or their honesty.” said Mirko, matter of fact. “They are the cruelest of all creatures, deceptive and selfish. And this one in particular does not like you, <em> remember</em>?”</p><p>As if Martín could ever forget.</p><p>“I wonder what he wants, though.” Martín shook his head and sighed, playing with the note between his fingers, flicking it up and down absentmindedly.</p><p>The last time he and Andrés had an interaction was just over a year ago, when Andrés’s newly turned vampire wife left him in pursuit of another lover. They had met by chance in the woods not long after, with Andrés burning what Martín assumed were his ex-wife’s unclaimed possessions. They had only looked at each other then. Briefly. Silently.</p><p>Andrés, who was usually so quick with jeers and taunts, only said a quiet <em> Hello </em> before turning back to finish his task. And Martín, in a rare moment of compassion, simply left him to it, unaccustomed to seeing the usually prideful vampire look so somber. So <em> defeated</em>.</p><p>He wondered then what might have happened if he had simply said <em> Hello </em> back.</p><p>“There is only one way to find out.” he heard Mirko say. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The monastery is a foreboding structure that sits lonely atop the side of a cliff, its frightening silhouette serving as a warning to vagabonds and locals alike to keep as far away from it as possible. </p><p>A few decades back, various monks and religious pilgrims would frequent it for worship, lighting candles and singing praises. But ever since that <em> bloodsucker </em>moved in, people avoid even passing by it, as though it carries within its walls the certainty of their deaths and purest of all evil — which, if Martín has anything to say about it, is not too far off from the truth.</p><p>Over the horizon, he can see that dawn is about to break, the blackened sky slowly turning to gradient shades of blue. Andrés had said <em> three o’clock</em>, and unless he meant in the afternoon (which is highly unlikely, of course), he is running <em> terribly </em> late. </p><p>That, or he’s purposely making a fool out of Martín. </p><p>It wouldn’t be the first time.</p><p>Martín presumes he’s been standing outside for about an hour and a half now, longer than anyone should have, really, especially in the middle of such terrible weather. The October winds are ceaseless, buffeting against his already poorly insulated body.</p><p>Yet he waits a little while longer before deciding to head home (<em>Hilarious, Andrés. Haha. You surely got me!</em>) resolving to get back at the bastard as soon as he’s had a warm bath, but the sound of fabric fluttering in the wind stops him, and suddenly, a darkened figure of a man is beside him.</p><p>“This way.” Andrés says, grabbing Martín’s wrist and hauling him inside the monastery’s walls, brows furrowing as he quickly bolts its ancient gate shut. Martín yelps as he nearly trips over the wooden sill, already annoyed at the way he was being manhandled by this <em> incubus</em>, of all people. He did not come all this way to be treated like this. </p><p>And he was just about to say as much when Andrés turns around — much too swiftly to even be considered human — pulling Martín by his arm and all but <em> dragging </em>him into one of the abandoned chapels.</p><p>Once inside, Martín wrenches himself free and snarls.</p><p>“Get off me. I know how to walk by myself, you know.”</p><p>Andrés isn’t looking at him. He’s fidgeting with the set of keys he’d fished out of his elegant dress coat, flicking through them at rapid speed until he finds the one he’s searching for, locking the door with a click. Only then does he acknowledge Martín.</p><p>“You walk much too slow.” Andrés says with a lazy drawl. He rudely pushes past Martín and starts undressing himself, <em> unabashed</em><em>,</em> first taking off his coat, then his vest, and finally his tophat, hanging them up carefully on one of the fanciest coat racks Martín has ever seen in his life. “The sun was coming up. Another minute and I would have turned to stone. Then what would you have done, <em> hm</em><em>?”</em></p><p>Even dressed in just a white linen shirt and black pantaloons, Martín begrudgingly admits that Andrés looks absolutely <em> breathtaking. </em> Like a god that had decided to step down from utopia, to grace the mortal world with his presence. </p><p>And it doesn’t help that the candlelight is making his eyes glow like molten gold in the dark, and that his sharp, pale features remain perfectly preserved and unchanged despite the <em> centuries </em> that have passed. He looks exactly the same as he did when Martín first met him twenty years ago, handsome and distinguished, not a wrinkle or hair out of place. </p><p>As soon as he grins however, Martín could make out a pair of fangs glistening in the dim light. And he stiffens at the sight of them.</p><p><em>Vampire trickery</em>, he reminds himself. <em>He’s meant to be attractive. To lure his victims in.</em> <em>What do you think he did to all those village girls after he seduced them?</em></p><p>Martín shakes his head and rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want you to turn into stone, Andrés.” he purrs sweetly, wanting nothing more than to claw that shit-eating grin off the bloodsucker’s face. “That would deprive me the honor of shoving a <em> stake </em>through your heart.”</p><p>Andrés laughs at him, baritone and deep, and it resonates throughout the chapel’s walls. Even <em> that </em> sounded beautiful, musical. If Martín would have heard it anywhere else, and in any other context, he’s certain he would have followed it like a fool. To try and trace the lovely sound to its owner only to fall into Andrés’s wicked arms. How <em> unfair. </em></p><p>“My, my. I do forget myself sometimes. You haven’t been housebroken yet, have you? No manners what-so-ever.”</p><p>Martín snarls. "Are you going to tell me what exactly it is you brought me here for? Or are you just going to test out your fatally unfunny werewolf puns the entire time?” When Andrés only keeps smiling at him in that self-assured, bastardly way instead of answering his questions, Martín huffs in disgust. “You know what, <em>f</em><em>uck you</em>. I don’t have to listen to this. <em> I’m leaving.”</em></p><p>Andrés laughs as Martín makes his way to the door. “Ah, it seems I’ve forgotten your temper too, mutt. We have a lot of catching up to do.”</p><p>Martín growls, the heat rising inside him. “Open the fucking door before I kick it down, Andrés. Because I promise you I will.” he jabs a finger at him, and it only makes Andrés smile wider. “I don’t care what the sun does to you.”</p><p>Andrés makes a face. “All right, leave then. Just so you know, I have the missing ingredient for your cure.”</p><p>Though Andrés had said it so casually, so nonchalant, it still makes Martín stop dead in his tracks. Slowly, hesitatingly, he turns back around.</p><p>
  <em> “You’re lying.” </em>
</p><p>“No.” Andrés says. That grin is back on his face. Perhaps it never left. <em> Smug bastard. </em> He tips his head to the side, almost like an invitation for Martín to follow. And before he could even be given an answer, he’s already turning away and walking further down the corridor, footsteps echoing, not looking back once, as though he <em> knew </em>Martín would chase after him. </p><p>And, despite his indignation, Martín does.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p><em> Wolfsbane</em>, the color of red wine, lies solitary within a tiny chest made of silver, placed on top of what used to be the chapel’s altar. </p><p>Andrés had opened it with a snap of his fingers, standing by the archway of the chapel as he urged Martín to go over and take a look. </p><p>Martín had been wary, of course. Anticipating some sort of nasty trick, or an ambush. But as soon as he came close enough to see the contents within the chest, he audibly gasps. </p><p>“See?” Andrés exclaims, looking pleased with himself as he leans against the curved wall. “How dare you accuse me of lying.”</p><p>Martín ignores him, too stunned by what he’s seeing. He never thought he would ever get to lay eyes on the fabled flower that had consumed his dreams and fantasies. Never thought he would get to be this close. And now that he is, it looks as magnificent as he always thought it would be. </p><p>As Martín reaches for it, craving to touch, to hold, to make sure it’s really there before him, this precious thing he’s spent years searching for, and it's not some kind of hallucination —  Andrés crosses the room in an instant, swatting his hand away.</p><p>“Not so fast, mutt. Did you really think I would hand over such a rare and priceless treasure that easily?” He laughs, taunting. “<em>Por favor. </em> You’d have to give me something in exchange for it.”</p><p>“What do you want, then?” Martín asks, when what he really wants to say is: <em> What can I possibly give you? I have nothing of value, no money to inherit or grand title to my name, if this is another way to humiliate me —  </em></p><p>“I hear you possess certain… <em> skills </em>that I might be interested in.” Andrés drones. “And perhaps I require such services from you.” </p><p>Martín blinks. </p><p>There is only one thing in this world he takes pride in, one skill that he’s practiced so much he’s certain that he is truly the best at it. The master, the expert. It takes a few moments for him to put two and two together, but soon it dawns on him what kind of service Andrés is actually asking him for.</p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p>He sinks to his knees and reaches for Andrés’s breeches, his hands trembling. But before he could even touch a single button, Andrés clasps his wrists, squeezing with <em> force. </em></p><p>“What on earth are you doing?”</p><p>Martín looks up and gulps. “I am about to take you in my mouth. Isn’t that —"</p><p>Andrés’s dark eyes widen somewhat before he howls with laughter. <em>“Ave maria purisima</em>, you wolves are truly something else.” </p><p>“But you said, my <em> skills </em>—"</p><p>“— in offering me <em> protection,</em> you silly dog.” Andrés has a disgustingly smug grin on his face, and he chuckles at the sight of Martín, on his knees, probably turning as red as a beetroot.  “Although I am sure your skills in fellatio are… <em> unparalleled</em>, to say the least. At this moment however, they are not needed.”</p><p>Martín stares at him, eyes as wide as an owl’s, mortified at how easily he was willing to suck the cock of his alleged <em> archnemesis</em>.</p><p>He hastily picks himself up from the floor and pretends to wipe dust off his shirt, trying not to meet Andrés’s gaze. He knows vampires have a heightened sense of hearing, and Andrés can probably hear the way his heart is fluttering wildly in his chest. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t mention it.</p><p>“And what exactly do you need my protection for?”</p><p>“Oh. Nothing that concerns you.” </p><p>Martín narrows his eyes at him and sneers. His heart rate is considerably slower now, perhaps largely due to Andrés being a pompous ass again. Always does wonders.</p><p>“Oh, pardon me. Is it some super secret vampire business that I am not allowed to know about?”</p><p>“Hmm. Something like that, yes.”</p><p>Martín crosses his arms over his chest. “If I’m meant to be risking my life to protect you, I should at least know what I’m up against, no?”</p><p>He juts his chin out defiantly and Andrés raises an eyebrow at him, as though he’s impressed. </p><p>“You make a fair point.” Andrés agrees, holding his hands behind his back in mock contemplation. He starts circling Martín like a predator would its prey, tutting his lips, eyeing him up and down. Martín tenses to his gaze. “Well, let me see if I can make this short. I seem to have angered a witch and now she has rallied a few members of my kind to put an end to me.”</p><p>“A <em> witch?</em>”</p><p>“Yes, but as I suspect she’ll be unwilling to do the dirty work herself. Hence the need of henchmen.” he shrugs. “I don’t know when she’ll attack and what creature she will send my way, but I am not taking any chances. That, my dear friend, is where you come in.”</p><p><em> Friend? </em>Martín could almost laugh. <em> Oh he really must be desperate. </em></p><p>But then again so is he.</p><p>“Well, I don’t know —”</p><p>Andrés snaps his fingers and the chest promptly shuts with a thud. The sound is almost deafening to Martín’s ears, startling him. He watches helplessly as Andrés picks the chest up and slips it back into one of the many compartments built into the wall, which he then locks with a silver key. </p><p>And just like that, the cure is out of Martín’s reach once more. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting cursed all over again. Like his suffering is never going to end. Made worse by that realization that his only chance of salvation lay in the hands of this cruel, undead bastard, smiling at him like he’d just won some sick game.</p><p>“I suppose you’ll want to think it over. Understandable. I’ll give you a fortnight to —”</p><p>
  <em> “I’ll do it.”  </em>
</p><p>Andrés purses his lips, regarding Martín for a moment before breaking into a crooked, devious grin, his fangs on full display.</p><p>“Excellent. You can start tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Martín isn’t sure what he expects as he follows Andrés further into his beloved monastery. Outside it had been cold and dreary, like the place hadn’t been lived in for years. But on the inside it was strangely warm and neat and well furnished, with kerosene lamps lighting the halls, and paintings hanging from every possible corner of every room and every corridor. Martín admits he always imagined the place would be overrun by vegetation or cobwebs or maybe even the skeletonized remains of Andrés’s many victims. He’s surprisingly relieved that it isn’t.</p><p>Andrés pushes an ornately decorated wooden door and it opens to a large bedroom. Martín is about to make a stupid quip, something like “Where is your coffin?” when Andrés suddenly says:</p><p>“This is where you and I shall sleep together.”</p><p>Martín nearly doubles over from sheer <em> shock</em>. </p><p><em> “</em><em>¿Qué? </em>”</p><p>“Well how do you expect to stand guard over me if we sleep in separate rooms?” Andrés snaps, like it was extremely obvious and Martín was the one being strange. He lazily saunters inside and points to a dresser at the far end of the room. “You may keep your clothes and other items of value there. For now, you may borrow one of my old nightshirts. Everything else in this room is strictly off limits.”</p><p>Andrés seems to be preparing himself for bed while Martín stares at him from the doorway, trying to wrap his head around everything that has happened so far. He doesn’t know what he had expected when he first read that note, but certainly wasn’t <em> this.</em></p><p>“Do you think I enjoy this?” Andrés drawls, throwing a nightshirt at Martín, snapping him out of his trance. “I quite like sleeping in my bed by myself, and the only time I’ve shared it with anyone else is when I had my cock inside them. So unless you want to bend over and present yourself for fucking, <em> mutt</em>, I suggest you shower and lather yourself with perfume before you even <em> think </em> about joining me in bed. Understood?"</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>After bathing in one of the many guest bathrooms and lathering himself with perfume as instructed, Martín slips beneath the covers awkwardly, trying to keep as much distance between him and Andrés as possible without falling off the edge of the bed.</p><p>It is not an easy task. </p><p>The fine linen sheets feel odd against his skin, too soft and too warm, and he’s well aware he isn’t meant to experience such a luxury. Such <em>comfort. </em></p><p>And he also knows he isn’t meant to be lying in bed next to his self-proclaimed bloodsucking nemesis of nearly two decades, yet here he is.</p><p>“I need you closer.” Andrés says, eyes already closed. “Come over here.”</p><p>“You can’t be serious.”</p><p>Andrés turns and narrows his eyes at Martín. “Do I sound like I am joking?”</p><p>Martín grumbles and mutters “<em>Asshole.</em>” under his breath before inching just a little bit closer, still maintaining a considerable and respectful distance, which makes Andrés groan, exasperated.</p><p>“Mutt, do you have any idea how cunning my kind are? One of them could turn into a snake, or a bat. Slip into bed and kill me while you’re snoring way over there.” Without another word, he pulls Martín towards him, and suddenly they are attached, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, skin to skin. Andrés is looking at him with half-lidded eyes and Martín is paralyzed.</p><p>“There. That will do.”</p><p>“<em>Vale.</em>” Martín says, swallowing. “Good morning, then. Sleep well.”</p><p>Andrés chuckles. “Your heart is being terribly loud, mutt.” he murmurs, sounding amused. “Relax. I won’t use my vampire guiles to seduce you, if that is what you’re afraid of.”</p><p>Martín laughs, which surprises him. He doesn’t understand why he suddenly feels at <em> ease, </em> being next to Andrés, though he is trying his best not to move so much, avoiding any more friction between their skin.</p><p>“Is this… um, how we will be sleeping from now on?”</p><p>“Well, mostly it would be me doing the sleeping. You are meant to stay up and stand guard.” Andrés explains, shifting in place. “You are free to roam the grounds if you wish, but you are not allowed to leave until the sun sets. After that, the night is yours, and you’re free to do as you please.”</p><p>“And how long am I meant to protect you?”</p><p>Andrés’s mouth seems to quirk. “Well, I still haven’t found the people who are trying to kill me. But my brother is currently figuring that out, and knowing him, I suppose a month will do.”</p><p>“A month.” Martín exhales. It seems so distant. “And then you’ll give me the wolfsbane?”</p><p>“Yes.” Andrés whispers with a yawn. “Yes, I will give you the wolfsbane. You have my word, provided you keep me alive, of course.”</p><p>Martín snickers. “It would be easier to kill you myself and steal it. Maybe I’ll even live here, touch all the things you told me were off limits.”</p><p>“Perhaps. But I trust that you would do no such thing.” </p><p>Andrés seems to fall into a slumber, then, his body stilling against Martín’s. And it’s only when a considerable amount of time has passed that Martín gathers up the nerve to roll over and face him, instantly struck how unbelievably close they are, faces mere inches apart. From this distance, Martín can appreciate the way Andrés softened in sleep, like the sharpness of his jaw and the angles of his chin were dulled down by rest and dreams, if he had any.</p><p>And his lips are so soft and plump Martín ought to stop staring at them. But he finds that he can’t.</p><p><em>God</em>, he thinks with a groan. <em> What on earth have I gotten myself into?</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you to my beloved Shotgun cake for providing me with tasty insights and encouragement. without her this fic would be a vampire, that is, it would never see the light of day. lmao.</p><p>PS. i wrote this at 3 AM so do what you want with that info</p><p>as always feel free to yell at me in the comments. it is expected, if not encouraged.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. me and the devil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this came out way longer than i expected it to be and now i decided to add another chapter to make up for it<br/>tw: blood, sex, andres's list of rules. all that good stuff.</p><p>someone tell me to stop updating at 3 AM</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The forest is strangely quiet, even for night time. </p><p>No crickets chirping in the bushes; no owls hooting up in the trees. Even the air seems to be at a standstill, for though Martín shivers to the cold breeze that passes, he doesn’t hear a single leaf rustling in the wind.</p><p>A familiar sense of dread overcomes him.</p><p>
  <em> Be careful of the creatures that lurk in the dark. </em>
</p><p>Martín follows the path home, as he always had countless times before. His boots crunching against the forest floor — the only sound he hears for miles — echoes into the darkness that stretches out around him. His only source of light is the old, creaky lantern that he holds carelessly in his hand, barely bright enough to illuminate his face, let alone the darkened path that lay ahead. </p><p>Normally, he wouldn’t stay out so late. Nevermind the ghost stories and local legends — walking the woods alone at this hour is in <em> itself </em>a death sentence. Highwaymen were known to frequent these trails, lurking in the shadows, waiting for unsuspecting pedestrians to rob. Most of the time, they would take whatever possessions they wanted and leave their victims behind unscathed. </p><p>Recently however, their attacks have reportedly grown more violent. And the guards were finding dead bodies strewn across the <em> provincia</em>, their figures all mangled and broken. It looked as though a large animal had torn through them, leaving such grotesque scenes.</p><p>Rumors of a beast stalking the forest then began circulating amongst the villagers. They spoke of its razor sharp teeth, of its pointed ears, of its claws that glinted like steel daggers in the moonlight. <em> And its eyes</em>, they said, <em>its</em> <em>eyes glow as bright as candle flames, meant to lure you in </em>—</p><p>The crack of a twig snapping in two makes Martín twist around. He raises his lantern up to get a better look, but sees nothing, only the pitch-black night staring back at him.</p><p>He isn’t stupid. He doesn’t wait around, doesn’t ask: <em>Who’s there? </em> or goes to investigate the sound. He simply turns on his heels and runs.</p><p><em> How do you want me to fuck you, Martín? </em>his lover had asked, pressing him up against a tree. It had been late — much too late for a midnight tryst, they both knew it — but lust had overcome them both. </p><p>So Martín let himself be taken, moaning and panting against the bark of the tree trunk, allowing a man he’d met only a few hours ago to push inside of him. In truth, the sex had been pleasant enough for him to forget the consequences of staying out after dark, and by the end of it, he was grinning like an idiot from the afterglow. <em> How foolish he was</em>.</p><p>Now, he finds himself running for his life. </p><p>Because something is certainly chasing after him.</p><p>He hears the creature rather than sees it. The sound of large paws thumping in the dirt, the low snarls resonating deep from its throat — getting closer and closer with each step he takes.</p><p>Before he knows it, the creature pounces, sending him tumbling down to the ground with a loud thud. His lantern drops beside him, shattering upon impact, and its light quickly snuffs out. Now he can’t see anything at all — forced to rely on the sounds around him, none of which seem the least bit reassuring. </p><p>A shiver runs down his spine as the creature edges closer, its hungry growls mere inches away from his face. He can feel its hot, sticky breath as it huffs, the smell of it like dried blood and rotting flesh. It makes him want to retch. </p><p>He braces himself for the killing strike, for the creature to rip his throat apart.</p><p>But instead he finds himself getting pinned down, with hands gripping his wrists, tight and unrelenting. <em> These are no monster’s hands,</em> he thinks.</p><p>Martín looks up and meets Andrés’s dark eyes. His handsome face is framed by the moonlight, making him appear like something between a ghost and a god. <em> Ethereal and not of this world. </em></p><p>When he grins, his fangs drip with blood.</p><p><em> Beautiful, </em> Martín thinks. <em> Absolutely beautiful. </em></p><p>A drop of blood falls from Andrés’s lips to Martín’s cheek, staining it red and making him gasp. He shudders when Andrés quickly leans down, pressing his mouth against Martín’s face, his lips unbelievably <em> warm </em> as he sucks the droplet away. It feels like a kiss, chaste and sweet and tender, and Martín could turn into a puddle on the ground just by his touch alone.</p><p>“More.” he groans softly. “Please. <em> More</em>.”</p><p>At that, Andrés grins wickedly, and lunges for his neck.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Martín wakes up gasping. </p><p>His breathing is quick, deep; chest heaving up and down, heart racing in his chest. Instinctively, he reaches for his throat, running his hands over his skin, desperately searching for the two puncture marks that might be there.</p><p>But the panic soon settles, and he heaves a sigh. <em> Just another nightmare, then. </em></p><p>Beside him, Andrés does not stir. Sleeping like the dead. His lips are slightly parted, as though about to speak, and Martín briefly wonders if they really feel as warm as they did in his dreams —</p><p>He quickly snaps out of it though, launching himself out of their shared bed. </p><p>
  <em> He is your nemesis! </em>
</p><p>Martín tears his gaze away from the sleeping vampire, lightly slapping at his cheeks. <em> Control yourself, Martín. It was a nightmare, that’s all. None of it was real. It means nothing! </em></p><p>He scans the expanse of Andrés’s private quarters, immediately struck by how spacious and ostentatious it all looks. The walls are lined with wallpaper that looks like it’s been there for some time, the elaborate but old-fashioned design beginning to show wear, giving off a little musty scent Martín can easily pick up. </p><p>There are paintings too — mostly of landscapes and still-lifes, hanging on nearly every corner of the room. The scenes are gloomy and of high contrast, minimal light against a darkened background, as though they were painted during night time or in a dimly lit room.</p><p>And before Martín can muse as to whether Andrés had those artworks personally commissioned, or if he bought them during one of those fancy, high-end auctions in the city, his eyes wander absentmindedly across the space, eyebrows raising at what he finds.</p><p>At the very end of the room, tucked into the velvet curtains stand a wooden easel and several half-painted canvases propped up against the unlit fireplace. On a small roundtable next to them, paint palettes, mixing bowls, and glass jars filled with dirty paint brushes are crammed together into a messy heap. It’s the only place in the whole monastery thus far that has looked chaotic and cluttered and — dare he say it, <em> human. </em></p><p><em> He’s a painter. </em> Martín realizes. </p><p>He doesn’t understand why that revelation is making him feel warm inside, almost as if it <em> moves </em>him. </p><p><em> Ridiculous! </em>He shakes himself out of it with a bitter laugh.</p><p>Painter or not, Andrés is still a vampire. Still his mortal enemy. If he didn’t require Martín’s protection, he would have kept the wolfsbane all to himself, like the uncaring, selfish bloodsucker that he is. And Martín would have carried on being a werewolf, completely oblivious, suffering until the day he died.</p><p>And Andrés wouldn’t care. He never cared.</p><p>In his eyes, this is nothing more than a business deal. An exchange of goods and services. He could have gotten anyone, but Martín was the easiest. <em> The most desperate</em>. Everyone knew that. All he had to do was dangle the wolfsbane over his head and Martín was on his <em> knees </em> for him. Just like that. </p><p><em> When I get the wolfsbane, I’ll be free of this curse, </em> he reminds himself. <em> But Andrés will stay a monster forever. </em></p><p>In that way, Martín feels like he’s already won.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Andrés left him specific instructions by the nightstand, along with a gold key attached to a chain (which Martín has to wear around his neck), and a revolver loaded with seven wooden bullets.</p><p>The revolver he holds in his hands for a while, twisting his wrists to see it from every angle. He realizes he can kill Andrés with this. <em> Easily. </em>He’s practically laying there, in a stupor, completely vulnerable and ignorant to what’s happening around him. All Martín has to do is aim at his heart and pull the trigger.</p><p>
  <em> Boom, boom, ciao. </em>
</p><p>Either the vampire is so hopeless he has no choice but to rely on him, or he genuinely trusts Martín to not kill him while he sleeps.</p><p>Martín isn’t sure which one of those he finds more appalling.</p><p>The next thing he looks at is the note Andrés left. It’s written on the same paper he had used in his first message, thick and scented and pretentious. Martín is already scowling as he reads the first few lines:</p><p>
  <em> Dearest Mutt,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Now that we find ourselves living together, I expect you to be a good dog and follow a few house rules: </em>
</p><p> </p>
<ul>
<li><em>As per our arrangement, you are to stay within the monastery grounds during the day and serve as my protector. During the night you are free to do as you wish, provided you return before dawn breaks.</em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>You are to sleep in my bed chambers until I deem it safe to do otherwise. (Non Negotiable)</em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>You may go downstairs to eat meals. I have asked the monks to prepare something for you in case you get hungry. And yes, before you ask, the monks know of my true nature.</em></li>
</ul><p> </p><p>Martín raises an eyebrow to that, but decides that it doesn’t really concern him who knows and who doesn’t know that Andrés is a vampire. <em> Tell the whole goddamn village for all I care. </em></p><p>He continues with a sigh: </p><p> </p>
<ul>
<li><em>Each time you leave our room, you must lock the door with the key I’ve left you. It works for the main gate and door as well. Wear it around your neck at all times. (I’m not giving you a spare if you lose it, Mutt.)</em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>The revolver is self-explanatory. Try not to kill me with it. </em></li>
</ul><p> </p><p>Martín readily admits that will be the hardest rule to follow. </p><p> </p>
<ul>
<li><em>Rules will be added as necessary. </em></li>
</ul><p> </p><p>He scoffs. “Rules will be added as necessary.” he taunts, poorly mimicking Andrés’s self-assured tone. </p><p>He crumples the note in his fists and takes a moment to make a rude gesture at the sleeping vampire before grabbing the other items off the nightstand and heading out the door.</p><p>
  <em> Fucking bastard. </em>
</p><p>The hallway is poorly lit, and he shuffles through it with only a candlestick brightening up his path. Around him, the air feels heavy and damp, the way it gets after long periods of stagnation. It makes him want to kick a window open, to somehow get some air flowing. To <em> breathe.  </em></p><p>He can’t understand how anyone could live like this. Always in the dark, always contained. <em> Trapped. </em> It makes him miss running around in the meadow with the other wolves, sweaty and breathless beneath the sun.</p><p>One of the rare things he admits he’ll miss about being a werewolf. </p><p>If he manages to get the cure, that is.</p><p>He eats the food the monks have left for him (roast beef with some wine), and opts to lay in the courtyard until the sun begins to set. </p><p>If he were more of a poet, he’d make a metaphor out of that. But he isn’t. So he wallows in his own self-inflicted misery, sighing as he drags himself back up to check on Andrés, who wakes up at exactly six o’clock.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“Good evening.” Andrés chirps, stretching his arms out with a groan. His elegant, purple robe flutters like the wings of a large bird. “Well, you’ve truly outdone yourself, mutt. I didn’t expect to survive the day.”</p><p>Martín glowers at him, but that crooked smirk only seems to broaden.</p><p>
  <em> Bastard. </em>
</p><p>“Have you managed to read my note?” Andrés asks, gracefully sliding off the bed. </p><p>“I have. And I think you’ve forgotten something.”</p><p>Andrés raises a brow to that. He looks genuinely surprised. “Have I now?”</p><p>“Yes, you forgot to put down: ‘Do not touch anything, everything in this building is off limits.’”</p><p>Andrés looks confused for a moment, but then he laughs. <em> Heartily</em>. “Ah, Mutt. <em> Por favor. </em> It’s too early in the evening for you to make me laugh, please. <em> Oh </em> —” </p><p>Andrés jerks his head back suddenly, <em> unnaturally, </em>shutting his eyes tightly as though he were in tremendous pain, his jaw trembling with strain. </p><p>When he opens his eyes again, there’s a certain <em> hunger </em>to them that Martín doesn’t recognize. </p><p>“Oh, I’m so <em> thirsty.” </em> Andrés hisses, licking his lips slowly and with a gasp. For a moment, his eyes appear to widen and fix themselves on the veins of Martín’s neck. And when he steps forward, Martín quickly steps back.</p><p>“Andrés, I have to go home and get my things.” he says, trying to ignore the way Andrés is staring at him as though he were the roast beef he just ate. “I hope that’s alright with you.”</p><p>It seems to take a moment for Martín’s words to register. Andrés tilts his head to the side, looking like he’s about to <em> pounce </em>— but then he seems to snap out of it, blinking his eyes rapidly.</p><p>“Ah, yes of course.”</p><p>He turns away from Martín and begins rummaging through his many drawers. Martín takes it as his cue to leave.</p><p>“Oh, and Mutt?”</p><p>Martín doubles back and peeks his head through the doorway. “Yes?”</p><p>“Don’t forget to bring your own set of clothes. You can’t always be wearing mine, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Martín’s cabin is a run-down, wooden structure by the foot of a mountain, all the way over at the other side of the village. As he sees it slowly come into view, he holds in the urge to burst into tears.</p><p>He used to hate the broken shutters and the hole in the roof. Used to hate the creaky door and equally creaky bed. And most of all, he used to hate the way a cold draft could easily find its way through the cracks on the wall, nearly freezing him to death in the cold of winter.</p><p>But now? Now he wants to kiss the very ground it stood on.</p><p>He’s barely able to touch the door when it suddenly flings open, and he jumps back with a yelp.</p><p>Mirko suddenly hauls Martín into the tightest bear hug of his life, his large arms crushing Martín’s shoulders, rendering him motionless, almost breaking his chest — </p><p>“M—Mirko.” he gasps. “Too — too t—t—tight.”</p><p>He’s squeezed a bit more before Mirko sets him back down on the ground. His knees wobble slightly but he manages to gasp out a laugh.</p><p>“You’re alive.”</p><p>It isn’t Mirko who speaks, but Ágata. She steps from behind the doorway to stand beside Mirko, arms crossed over her chest, her slender, watchful eyes narrowing at the sight of him. </p><p>“We thought that bloodsucker was holding you hostage. Mirko was ready to break in.”</p><p>“I was ready to kill him.” Mirko says. It sounds like a promise.</p><p>Martín darts his eyes back and forth between them, trying to gauge their respective reactions when he says:</p><p>“I can explain.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>By the time Martín finishes his story, Mirko and Ágata are staring at him with matching expressions of horror and disbelief.</p><p>It’s Ágata who breaks the silence, of course. “Are you <em> crazy? </em> Are you <em> out of your mind? </em>Did you get dropped on your head recently? Bump it too much against a wall —”</p><p>She repeatedly pokes her finger on Martín’s forehead for emphasis before he manages to swat her hand away.</p><p><em> “Cariño, </em> this isn’t just any vampire! It’s Andrés <em> the bloodsucking bastard </em>de Fonollosa.”</p><p>“I know that.”</p><p>“The very same Andrés who humiliated you at that Hallow’s Eve dinner!”</p><p>“Yes, I remember.”</p><p>“The same Andrés who poured that potion into your drink and made you shit slugs out of your ass for days!”</p><p>That one he didn’t remember. <em> Until now</em>. And he winces at the memory. “All right fair enough, but —”</p><p>“He is your arch nemesis! The bane of your existence! Your greatest adversary —”</p><p>“Ágata,<em> por favor, </em> I get it.” He lifts himself up from the ratty couch they’ve been sitting on and puts his hands over his hips, sighing. “I know he’s a bloodsucking, manipulative bastard vampire who can’t be trusted. <em> I know. </em> But he is the only one who has the red wolfsbane! You don’t expect me to simply give it up because of — because of some <em> rivalry, </em> do you?"</p><p>Mirko and Ágata exchange glances, and then they both look at him like he’s gone insane. </p><p>Perhaps he has. </p><p>“And what makes you so sure he’ll give you the wolfsbane?” Mirko asks suddenly. In contrast to Ágata, who had flailed about the room trying to make sense of everything, Mirko had stayed quiet and unmoving, his jaw clenched tight. Yet his eyes have a fire to them that Martín had not seen in a while, and it almost frightens him. </p><p>“I don’t know.” Martín admits, shrugging his shoulders. “But it’s a chance, isn’t it? Better than nothing.”</p><p>Mirko doesn’t look convinced. “If he hurts you,” he begins. “I will kill him.”</p><p>“Mirko —”</p><p>The Serb gets up too, and Martín has forgotten how imposing he actually looks, how <em> large </em>Mirko is, even for a wolf. He towers over Martín easily.</p><p>“If he hurts you, I will kill him.” he repeats, as though it were that simple. And before Martín could think of anything to say as a counter to that, Mirko had pushed past him and out the door, his boots stomping in the dirt, not looking back once.</p><p>Martín moves to chase after him, but Ágata grips him by his arm, pulling him back with a forceful tug.</p><p>“Don’t.” she says solemnly. “Let him. He needs to figure it out himself.”</p><p>“Figure it out — <em> figure out what?” </em> Martín jerks his head around, eyes widening when he sees Ágata's expression, and the realization comes to him. <em> Oh</em>. “Wait is he... <em> still?”  </em></p><p>Ágata's eyes flash with anger at that. She looks like she wants to smack him with a chair.</p><p>“What do you mean <em> ‘Still?’ </em> Of course ‘Still’, you idiot!  Mirko likes you a lot! You know he does.” For a moment, her face softens, but it quickly contorts back into that of fury as she stabs her finger at his chest. “And then you disappear without a word and come back to tell us you’ve sold your soul to <em> the devil incarnate!” </em></p><p>“Andrés <em> isn’t the devil incarnate </em>—”</p><p>There’s a pause. </p><p>Then Ágata's mouth slowly widens into a scandalized <em> Oh </em>before she starts cackling at him, making Martín splutter out senseless excuses at record speed, hands waving frantically.</p><p>“<em>Wait</em>, <em> para para para </em>—”</p><p>“An-<em>drés, eh?” </em> she has a terribly smug look on her face. “Ayayay, <em> querido… </em>” </p><p>“Ágata, shut up. That doesn’t mean anything.”</p><p>“It <em> doesn’t?” </em></p><p>“That’s not the point!” he yells, desperate to change the subject. “What exactly are you trying to say, huh? That I should give up the cure because it’s hurting Mirko’s feelings? That I should just live with the curse forever —”</p><p>“No one is telling you to give up the cure. <em> Cariño! </em>Don’t you think you agreed just a <em> little bit </em> too quickly to that bloodsucker’s request? You could have told us, at least. We would have figured something out.” </p><p>He remembers getting on his knees for Andrés, a part he had carefully omitted when he told Ágata and Mirko what happened. He doesn’t think it would be smart to mention it now.</p><p>“I know you don’t believe it, but people care about you. Mirko cares about you. I —” Ágata chokes to a stop, and Martín almost rolls his eyes. “I — I care about you too. In my own little way.”</p><p>“Thank you, I’m incredibly touched by the sentiment.”</p><p>She bats her eyelashes at him and pats his shoulder. “I mean it, darling. Us wolves stick together.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“And Mirko is right. If that bloodsucker lays a hand on you, <em> he’s dead.” </em></p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>He returns to the monastery a few hours later, looking forlorn and absolutely miserable.</p><p>
  <em> I should probably talk to Mirko soon.  </em>
</p><p>Before he even has a chance to close the door, a loud moan cuts through the darkness, freezing him in place:</p><p><em> “Oh, Andrés </em> —<em>!” </em></p><p>The sound is coming from one of the rooms down the hall. Martín doesn’t move an inch. </p><p>
  <em> “Andrés — ah. Harder!” </em>
</p><p>He swallows. Half of him wants to investigate the sounds, to somehow <em> confirm </em>what he already suspects in his head, like the pervert that he is. The other half, on the other hand, just wants to run back out into the night, far enough from the monastery so he never has to hear those sounds ever again.</p><p>
  <em> “Andrés —!” </em>
</p><p>But the pervert wins, naturally.</p><p>He traces the sound and narrows it down to one of the guest rooms on the left. He gives himself approximately two seconds to be a decent person before his hands move at their own accord, and push the (unlocked!) door open. </p><p>“Oh <em> Mutt</em>, you’re home early.” Andrés exclaims, panting in-between his thrusts. There’s a decidedly pleasured grin on his face, showing his fangs off in their full glory. Blood drips from the tips down to the corners of his mouth, and the look on his face is feverish.</p><p>He was also delectably naked. And <em> sweaty. </em> Martín’s dick twitches at the sight of his <em> ass.  </em></p><p>Beneath him, a woman is arching her back, her breasts bouncing up and down in sync with the movement of Andrés’s hips. Martín wants to throw up at the sight of them. At the sight of Andrés, however — </p><p>“Care to join me, Martín?”</p><p>Martín feels the blood rush to his cheeks when Andrés laughs, seemingly delighted by how scandalized Martín looks. But then he moans, and <em> oh,</em> what a salacious, <em> filthy </em>sound to come out of that gorgeous mouth. </p><p>Andrés presses the nameless woman down on the mattress and really starts bucking his hips, eyes clenched, mouth frozen in pleasure, grunting like some <em> animal </em>when he suddenly throws his head back and he —</p><p>Martín shuts the door with a slam and makes for one of the bathrooms. The minute he’s inside, he doesn’t think twice before he unbuckles his belt, nearly ripping his trousers off by the seams.</p><p>Just as he was expecting, his cock is <em> hard</em>. Not just “halfway to becoming a boner” hard, but a “full-on, shamelessly erect, solid as a rock” hard. He groans at the sight of it.</p><p>
  <em> That’s just fucking fantastic. </em>
</p><p>He whimpers as he takes himself into his hand, biting down on his lip. He pictures Andrés sliding on top of him, panting and grinning the way he did, thrusting his hips, <em> breeching him down there. </em>He moans at the thought of it and starts pumping his fists like crazy, the friction and heat on his cock making him hiss curses under his breath.</p><p>On the outside, he’s saying: “Fuck you, Andrés. Fuck you, Andrés. Fuck you, Andrés.” over and over again.</p><p>On the inside, his mind goes:<em> Fuck me, Andrés. Fuck me, Andrés. Fuck me, Andrés. Fuck me </em>—</p><p>
  <em> Care to join me, Martín?  </em>
</p><p>He comes in his hand with a shout.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Andrés seems to scrunch his nose the minute he walks into the dining hall, looking like he’d just caught a whiff of something foul. </p><p>He’s fully clothed now (<em>Thank, god</em>) and the blood that stained his lips and face had all but vanished, as though it was never there in the first place. </p><p>Martín pretends not to see him, opting instead to look engrossed with one of the paintings on the wall. At the corner of his eye, he sees the fabric of a dress flutter through one of the archways, followed by the sound of the main entrance opening and closing.</p><p>Martín snickers. <em> Typical.  </em></p><p>Andrés continues circling the room, that look of displeasure on his face not wavering by the slightest. For a minute, Martín worries if Andrés had somehow heard him pleasuring himself in the bathroom. After all, vampires have an uncanny ability to hear even the slightest of sounds —</p><p>Andrés is next to him in seconds, one arm around his waist, the other cupping his face. Martín squeaks despite himself, obviously taken by surprise. Andrés had moved so quickly, so quietly...</p><p>Instinctively, Martín tries to steady himself, and his arms find their way to curl around Andrés’s neck, holding on to him. And they’re close, <em> so close, </em>mere inches apart.</p><p><em> Oh god, he didn’t hear me, did he </em> — <em> ? </em></p><p>Andrés furrows his brows as though in deep concentration, gaze intense and unnerving. And just as Martín is about to wrench himself free, Andrés grips him beneath his chin, holding him firmly in place. Martín takes a deep breath.</p><p>Then Andrés slowly leans in, presses his nose to Martín’s cheek and — <em> sniffs. </em></p><p>“Wha — what are you — ”</p><p>“You smell different.” Andrés mutters. If Martín didn’t know any better, it sounded almost like an accusation. “I take it you’ve gone to visit the other mongrels?”</p><p>Martín snarls and pushes Andrés off of him. “Fuck you.” he growls. “You can say whatever you want about us <em> mongrels, </em> but at least we don’t leech off other people like <em> parasites.” </em></p><p>Andrés’s expression seems to darken, and this time it’s Martín who’s grinning, pleased to have gotten under his skin.</p><p>“So how does it work, then?” he continues mockingly. “Do you hypnotize them to have sex with you, and then you suck their blood? Or is it the other way around? Do you drink their blood first <em> and then </em>fuck them?”</p><p>“Oh, they beg me to fuck them. Believe me.”</p><p>Martín scoffs at that.</p><p>“You think so highly of yourself, don’t you? Living in your fancy monastery. Luring idiot girls to fuck and scaring everyone else to do your bidding. But at the end of it, what are you?” Martín steps forward and presses their chests together, looking Andrés squarely in the face. “I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a monster.”</p><p>Andrés smiles, but it cuts. “So are you.”</p><p>“Maybe. But I won’t always be.” He points his chin out defiantly. “I can get cured. I <em> will </em>get cured. You on the other hand? You’re doomed. You’ll never stop being a monster, Andrés. And I know it’s fucking eating you up on the inside, knowing I have a chance to be cured and you don’t.”</p><p>He expects Andrés to lash out at him. To mock him, call him nothing more than a mangy, dirty, ungrateful <em> mutt. </em> To kick him out and tell him there are others out there more worthy of the wolfsbane than he is. </p><p>But Andrés doesn’t say any of that. </p><p>In fact, he doesn’t say anything for an achingly long time, and Martín feels like maybe time has stopped, rendering him frozen in place.</p><p>Then his face twists into a smile so pleasant, it’s <em>nauseating</em>. </p><p>“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Martín.” </p><p>Without another word, Andrés turns around and disappears into a darkened corridor, leaving Martín to wonder if the pang he feels in his chest is triumph or guilt.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Despite the obvious animosity between them, they fall into an oddly manageable routine.</p><p>Martín wakes at dawn and scours the monastery for anything suspicious. Usually, he wouldn’t find anything that’s amiss, and would then resolve to eating whatever meal the monks prepared for him that day. More often than not, it would be some form of roast meat, delectably cooked and much too fancy for someone of his social standing — but he scarfs it down anyway.</p><p>He’d check on Andrés periodically, both relieved and disappointed to find him still alive in their bed. Sometimes, when Martín is too tired to wait up for him, he slips himself beneath the covers and reluctantly presses his arm against Andrés’s, heaving an exasperated sigh before he falls asleep. </p><p>When he wakes, it’s night time, and Andrés is fucking some woman in one of the guest rooms, their moans echoing throughout the monastery’s walls. He has to bury his face under the pillows in an attempt to muffle the sounds. </p><p>It’s barely effective. </p><p>Regrettably, Martín hasn’t touched himself after that night he walked in on Andrés, furiously masturbating in the bathroom thereafter. </p><p>But he’d be lying if he says he hasn’t thought about it a few times since then. Hasn’t come close to sliding his hand over his crotch, spurred on by the <em> sounds </em>he hears from down the hall, the noises that have started slipping into his dreams —</p><p>
  <em> Pull yourself together, Martín. Don’t let his vampiric charm get to you.  </em>
</p><p>On the nights when Andrés doesn’t feed, however, Martín would spot him lounging in the library, reclining like a cat on one of the chairs either with his nose buried in a book, or sketching furiously in one of his drawing pads. </p><p>It seemed to him that Andrés was enjoying his solitude, after all, he barely had any time to himself, not since their little arrangement. So Martín would usually leave him alone. </p><p>Usually.</p><p>“Mutt, come in here for a minute.”</p><p>Martín scowls and steps inside the room. The library is vast and warm and it’s probably Martín’s favorite spot in the monastery, second only to the courtyard. </p><p>“Will you please stop calling me a mutt?”</p><p>Andrés tuts his lips, reaching over the coffee table to grab one of his sketchbooks. “<em>Please</em>. You like it when I call you mutt.” </p><p><em> What an asshole</em>. “Certainly as much as you like being called a <em> leech</em>.” </p><p>Andrés breaks into his signature crooked grin, then, one side curling upwards before the other follows suit, and Martín likens it to the way waves form in the ocean, growing gradually at first, then all at once.</p><p><em> Gorgeous</em>. Martín thinks, then snaps out of it. <em> But incredibly annoying</em>. </p><p>“Sit down, Mutt. I have something to show you.”</p><p>“You are such an asshole.” Martín concludes, but takes a seat anyway, no doubt curious to what Andrés could possibly want from him now. </p><p>And Andrés seems to be pleased by this, as his smile begins to crinkle the skin around his eyes. He quickly flips through the pages of his sketchbook, only pausing to look at one or two drawings every couple of flips, and then his eyes suddenly brighten.</p><p>“Ah, here we are.”</p><p>Martín almost gasps when Andrés rips a page out of the book, looking over whatever was on it once before he triumphantly hands it over. The smile on his face is mischievous.</p><p>“<em>Voil</em><em>à</em>, I call it my rendition of <em> Cave Canem."</em> </p><p>Martín eyes him suspiciously as he unfolds the sheet of paper. Then he says: </p><p>“What the fuck?”</p><p>He knew Andrés was a talented artist (the whole monastery and all the paintings inside of it were a testament to that), yet he never expected anything like this.</p><p>The drawing in his hand might as well have been a photograph. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks, even <em> the gap between his teeth </em> — Andrés had managed to capture it all so accurately, so carefully, so — <em>so perfectly.  </em></p><p>Martín doesn’t know what to think.</p><p>
  <em> He drew me.  </em>
</p><p>There was the matter of course, of certain “<em>artistic liberties</em>” Andrés took. That being two pointed wolf ears sticking out of Martín’s head, and what looks to be the curved wisp of a tail peeking out from over his shoulder. </p><p>It all looks so comical Martín should be <em> insulted, </em>yet he finds himself grinning at it like an idiot.</p><p>“What do you think, Mutt? Uncanny, no?” </p><p>Martín can only look at him, unable to form a single word. Not a thank you, nor an insult, nor a quip leaves his mouth. All he can do is nod his head, and Andrés laughs, throwing his head back, seemingly content to have rendered Martín speechless.</p><p>“Look here.”</p><p>His slender finger points to a note scrawled near the very bottom of the page. Written in his familiar, pretentious curved handwriting are three words: </p><p>
  <em> Martín by Andrés. </em>
</p><p>If Martín’s heart flutters at the sight of their names together like that, he refuses to acknowledge it.</p><p>“Death threats aside, Mutt, you actually make decent company.” Andrés says, reclining back on the chair with a lazy groan. “And an excellent muse too.”</p><p>Martín scoffs. ”I’m starting to think no one is actually trying to kill you. And you’re just using me as live-in entertainment because you’re bored to death.”</p><p>“<em>Or perhaps the plan is working.” </em>Andrés mutters pointedly. His eyes are shut and he doesn’t even bother looking at Martín as he speaks. “Perhaps your presence is keeping them at bay, no? And every morning, you’re saving my life without either of us knowing.”</p><p>“I doubt that.”</p><p>Andrés laughs then, shaking his head. “Mutt, you really need to give yourself more credit.<em> Por favor. </em>You are not as bad as you think you are.” </p><p>Martín still doubts that. </p><p>“You picked me because I was the easiest, didn’t you? Because everyone else would have laughed at your offer. But not me. I was desperate enough and you knew that.”</p><p>He doesn’t know why he sounds so bitter, so <em> hurt. </em>What did he expect? That Andrés secretly harbored a liking for him? That he genuinely found Martín to be a worthy adversary? A worthy protector? <em>A friend?</em></p><p>Andrés grabs him by the chin and makes Martín look at him, holding his gaze steady. </p><p>“First of all, it is incredibly insulting to me that you would think I’d settle for scraps.” he nearly growls, fingers digging into the skin of Martín’s cheeks. “Second of all, I didn’t choose you out of convenience, Mutt. I chose you because I trusted you. If there’s anyone out of your litter of mongrels whom I genuinely have respect for, it’s <em> you, Mutt. </em>Only you. The rest be damned.”</p><p>A whimper escapes Martín’s throat, and Andrés grins to the sound.</p><p>“You chose me too, didn’t you Martín? I offered, you could have said no. But you didn’t. You chose me back.”</p><p>
  <em> You chose me back. How absurd. </em>
</p><p>Andrés releases him from his grip and Martín starts panting, as though he’s just finished running a marathon when all he’s done is look into Andrés’s beautiful brown eyes. </p><p>
  <em>Maybe I've been wrong about him this whole time —</em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>A week later, the witch finally strikes.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Cave Canem is an ancient warning sign that literally means Beware of Dog</p><p>PS. Shotgun ily i'm sorry for the mess haha</p><p>feel free to yell at me in the comments i love that stuff</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. born to beg</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cheers, i'm not dead. i just had to finish a few stuff for school before i started working on this again. and surprise surprise, i wrote way too much while i was gone. like 10K words, so expect the next update much sooner lmao (i'm making up for being AWOL) also look at me updating at normal human hours. character development.</p><p>tw: the fight scene might be a little gore-y for some people. personally i don't think it's that bad, but proceed with caution anyway.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It comes on a Sunday morning, when the monks have retreated deep into prayer, leaving the monastery grounds standing still and silent, free of the usual hymns and chants that echoed around its halls. For the first time in a long while, the place seems eerily empty. </p><p>It’s been weeks now since Martín came to live with Andrés in the monastery. Weeks of sly smiles and trying not to get in each other’s way. And while the two of them had reached a sort of “<em>functionally amicable</em>” relationship (as Andrés had called it, sniggering into his book), Martín would never go so far as to call the vampire <em> a friend. </em> </p><p>This is a business transaction, first and foremost. And Martín never forgot it; never lost sight of his goal. As soon as the month ends, he will happily claim his well-deserved remuneration in the form of the red Wolfsbane. Then, he will get himself cured of his lycanthropy, and he will never have to deal with the bloodsucking bastard Andrés de Fonollosa ever again.</p><p>He can’t fucking wait.</p><p>Finishing his daily survey of the grounds, Martín unsurprisingly finds nothing suspicious or out of place. <em> Another day of peace and quiet then</em>, he thinks with a grin. This job is almost too easy, and it’s starting to feel like he’s robbing Andrés blind. </p><p>Not that he cares, of course. </p><p>Martín whistles an old Italian tune as he makes his way back up to the bedroom, swinging the key and chain playfully around his fingers. The staircase creaks and groans as he ascends, a reminder that even though Andrés never let up with the upkeep of the monastery, this place is just as ancient and mysterious as the person who calls it home. </p><p>Or is it? It only occurs to him now that he never actually bothered to ask Andrés how old he is. He certainly doesn’t seem newly turned, not the way Martín is, still considered quite young for a supernatural despite being a werewolf for nearly twenty years now. The older wolves in his pack still think him too wild and too clumsy, not yet getting the hang of his supernatural abilities.</p><p>Andrés, meanwhile, moves with the grace and conviction of someone at ease with himself, someone who has existed long enough in this world to know what he’s capable of, and to not care for the affairs of mortal man. Why else does he keep shut up in his monastery, away from the likes of Martín? Away from everyone else, except when he needs to feed? </p><p><em> At least three hundred years old, then, </em>Martín thinks, closing one of the grand wooden doors behind him. He makes his way through the corridor leading to the master suite, checking to see if the windows were still boarded shut on one side, and admiring Andrés’s gloomy paintings on the other.</p><p>He briefly stops to appreciate a self portrait Andrés had made of himself, squinting his eyes and tilting his head, pretending to know what he’s looking for. Like all of Andrés’s pieces, the portrait is dark and poorly lit, painted on a large canvas and surrounded by an ornate golden frame. </p><p>In it, Andrés looks dashing and regal, despite the ridiculously puffy sleeves and large flat cap covering the soft curls of his hair. It looks like he’s in a dark room, and the bright yellow light from a single candle flame catches two thirds of his face, while the remaining third remains obscured in darkness. </p><p>Nothing else is included in the portrait, no props or décor — just that wry, crooked smile snatching the viewer’s attention with ease. At the bottom is an inscription that includes Andrés’s signature and the date on which the painting was completed. </p>
<ol>

</ol><p>
  <em> All right. Make that five hundred years. </em>
</p><p>Martín sighs and gives the portrait one final look before he heads further down the hall. While he’s admittedly not very familiar with the technical aspect of art, he knows Andrés likes to paint with oils. He’s seen him in his studio, mixing pigments, filling canvas after canvas with whatever image popped into that peculiar head of his. </p><p><em> Chiaroscuro, </em> Andrés had said, when he caught Martín peeking in while he worked. He had his back turned away, facing a canvas, yet somehow he knew Martín was there. <em> In case you were wondering what technique I use for my paintings, Mutt. Perhaps I can even show you one day, if you’re willing to pose nude for me, that is. </em></p><p>Martín picks up his pace, eager to fly into bed and sleep away the thoughts he has of Andrés and his flirtatious little smiles. He had laughed then, when he saw how deeply Martín blushed, how wide his eyes had grown. Martín was forced to bark out some rude remark before he fled the room, trying to ignore the tenting in his pants at the thought of Andrés seeing him <em> naked.  </em></p><p><em> Bastard. </em> Martín shakes his head at the memory, nearly stomping his feet now. He’s reached the darkest corner of the hall where their bedroom remains hidden in the shadows, perfectly invisible to those who don’t know what they’re looking for.</p><p>And just as he’s about to make the final turn and reach for the door, something grabs him from behind and throws him down to the floor with a deafening <em> smack </em>. </p><p>“Fuck!” He yells, holding his arms out to block the wooden spike that nearly gets plunged into his chest. He’s no vampire, but that would have certainly killed him anyway. “F—fuck!”</p><p>Above him, a man hisses, struggling to thrust the spike down despite Martín’s resistance. Though he looks like any other human being Martín might find walking around the village, with his black hair and dark eyes, the emptiness in his gaze and the sharp, bared fangs that graze across the side of Martín’s face, indicate something far more sinister than just an ordinary man. </p><p><em> “Where is Andrés de Fonollosa?” </em>the creature croaks, still trying to push the stake through Martín’s heart. </p><p>Martín knows he’s stronger than most, even Andrés if he so wanted to be. But this thing has him clenching his jaw with strain, trying to keep himself from getting stabbed. </p><p>“Get off me!”</p><p>He manages to push the intruder off, using the hold he has on the wooden stake to shove it backwards. The creature falls back and hisses as Martín scrambles to his feet. Immediately, he tries to look for the revolver Andrés had given him, patting his hands desperately on the floor, but it must have slipped out of its holster during the struggle, leaving him unarmed. </p><p>
  <em> Fuck.  </em>
</p><p><em> “Where is Andrés de Fonollosa?” </em> the creature repeats, crouching down unnaturally low, looking ready to strike again. It twists the stake in its hands, swinging it left to right, as if to taunt Martín of what was to come if he didn’t answer. </p><p>Martín clenches his fists. </p><p>
  <em> No fucking choice, then. </em>
</p><p>He grits his teeth together and braces himself for the searing pain as his fingers transform themselves into a beast’s sharpened claws. The heat quickly courses through his veins, from the tips up to his elbow, and he shudders. It feels like he had stuck his hand in a forge and his fingers were getting burned off. And while it isn’t as bad as the complete transformation under a full moon, it still hurts enough to make him shed a tear.</p><p>“<em>Werewolf.” </em> He hears the creature screech, it’s eyes wide as it stares him down. <em> “Werewolf! You have no business here!” </em></p><p>Martín takes a deep breath. </p><p>“I prefer Mutt, actually.” </p><p>And he lunges forward.</p><p>There’s a rather comical <em>“Oof”</em> sound that he makes the instant he collides with the creature, dragging it backwards to the end of the corridor and smashing it against the wall. A few of Andrés’s antique vases teeter off and break, and while Martín is sure he won’t be very pleased about that, he’s hoping Andrés will be able to understand, given the circumstances. </p><p><em> “This is between us vampires. This does not concern you.” </em> the creature hisses in his ear, writhing and screeching when Martín digs his claws deep into its flesh. <em> “Andrés de Fonollosa must be eliminated.” </em></p><p>The thing makes a swing at him then, slicing through the skin of his cheek and drawing blood, but Martín manages to keep his hold, burying his claws even deeper, causing the creature to spasm and screech.</p><p>Martín inhales deeply and grunts.</p><p>“Fuck vampires, honestly.” </p><p>He quickly hauls the creature toward one of the boarded windows. All the while it scratches and tears at his arms, trying to break free, making the most terrible shrieking sounds. Martín yelps when the thing manages to cut deep into his arm, but he only tightens his grip. </p><p>Then, using all the strength he has left in him, he shoves the creature right through the wooden panels, breaking them into tiny splinters, and letting sunlight stream through the gaps.</p><p>Almost immediately, he feels the thing wiggle and thrash wildly in his grip. Andrés had told him what the sun does to vampires, how quickly it turns their bodies into stone, making them into statues that could crumble into dust with the slightest touch.</p><p>He waits for exactly that to happen.</p><p>Except it <em> doesn’t. </em></p><p>“What the fuck?”</p><p>The creature starts laughing hysterically, and the sound is sick and grating to his ears. Martín blanches.</p><p>
  <em> “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, little wolf. The witch has powerful magic you’ve never even dreamed about.” </em>
</p><p>Suddenly, the creature jolts up and kicks him right in the stomach, sending him flying halfway across the hallway. He lands on his backside with a loud <em> thud</em>, and a couple of Andrés’s paintings, not to mention his expensive furnishings, clatter and break around him.</p><p>He tries to get up, but before he can even get his bearings, two large hands are around his neck, pinning him down and crushing his throat —</p><p>At the corner of his eye, he spots the wooden stake where it had dropped. He attempts to reach for it, but it’s just beyond his grasp, and his fingers curl desperately, yet still  —</p><p><em> “I’ve never had a werewolf before” </em> says the creature, looming over him with its fangs glistening in the dark. The hands around his neck only seem to tighten and he chokes. <em> “I’m sure I won’t like how you taste. But that doesn’t mean I won’t bleed you dry.” </em></p><p>Martín kicks and struggles, trying desperately to break free — but the creature is too strong — the hands on his neck too tight — and he can barely <em> breathe — </em> </p><p>“L— L — Let me — g— <em> go.” </em></p><p>The only thing he can manage to do is flail his legs helplessly while the creature looks down on him, a vicious glint in its eyes. </p><p>Martín braces himself as it lunges for his throat, and then <em> — </em> </p><p>The sound of a single gunshot cuts through the dark. Martín gasps when the pressure on his neck is suddenly gone, and the creature starts to screech wildly above him.</p><p>And even though Martín is sputtering and coughing on the floor, hands on his throat, he has enough presence of mind to reach for the wooden stake beside him and ram it into the creature’s heart.</p><p>It makes a terrible screeching sound, and Martín immediately crawls away when it begins writhing and twitching erratically, limbs bending in unnatural ways, it’s movements so unnervingly <em> inhuman.  </em></p><p>Finally, Andrés steps into view. He points his gun at the creature, and without another word, shoots it right between the eyes. </p><p>It drops to the floor with a quiet thud and doesn’t move again. </p><p>Martín doesn’t have time to process any of this until he’s hauled up onto his feet and into Andrés’s arms.</p><p>Instinctively, he lets himself be pulled into an embrace, gasping with trembling breaths as warm arms wrap around his waist. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so glad to see Andrés in his life. He could almost kiss him.</p><p>“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Andrés shakes him lightly, displeased by his silence. <em> “Martín.” </em></p><p>“I’m fine.” he exhales, sounding absolutely not fine at all. His voice is all cracked and hoarse, and it hurts to even speak. “I just, I need to sit —”</p><p>He tries to wobble out of Andrés’s grasp, but he’s too weak to even take a single step. He ends up teetering back into Andrés’s open arms, and the latter only holds him close.</p><p>“Martín, take it easy.”</p><p>“Andrés, be careful. That — that window down the hall is broken. The sun —”</p><p>He feels Andrés twist. “You did that?”</p><p>He nods, curling his fingers into the fine fabric of Andrés’s robe. Soft, warm, <em> safe. </em>“Yes. I did. M’sorry. He was too fast, I panicked.”</p><p>“Don’t say sorry, Martín. You did well.”</p><p>“What about…” </p><p>Martín makes a vague gesture to the ground where he assumes the creature still lies. Hopefully, the <em> hijo de puta </em>won’t be getting back up again. </p><p>“He’s dead.” Andrés says, voice suddenly with an edge. “Don’t worry about that, come here.”</p><p>Martín lets himself be maneuvered and led. Even as Andrés holds him steady, with an arm around his waist and the other holding the back of his head, Martín can barely stand up straight. He has to lean into Andrés, press his face to the crook of his neck, relying on the fact that Andrés won’t let him go. And surprisingly enough, he doesn’t.</p><p><em> “Tranquilo</em>. I got you.”</p><p>He half drags, half carries Martín back into their bedroom where the bed is still in disarray. Pillows were strewn halfway across the room and the blanket had been flung to the side with such force that it was now over one of the cabinets. Andrés doesn’t seem to mind any of this though, as his attention seems to be focused entirely on Martín, placing him down gently on the foot of their bed.</p><p>“Andrés, I’m fine — really — I just need to sit — you don’t have to — ”</p><p>A bottle filled with bright green liquid is abruptly thrust into his face, and it strangely smells like a mixture between his favorite home-cooked meal and one of Andrés’s many perfumes. <em> Strange. </em> </p><p>When Andrés tries to pry his mouth open with it, he jerks back and nearly smacks the bottle out of his hand, suddenly with newfound vigor. “What the fuck is that?”</p><p>“Medicine.” Andrés says simply, grabbing Martín’s hand and slipping the bottle between his fingers. “It’ll help with your headache. Now <em> drink.” </em></p><p><em> Asshole. </em>Martín makes a mocking face at him but obediently downs the whole bottle in one straight gulp. Immediately afterwards, he retches and almost chokes. </p><p>The liquid was unexpectedly viscous, and it tasted what he imagined rotting fish from the marketplace would taste like if it were ever turned into a juice, all soggy and utterly <em> disgusting</em>. He holds in the urge to throw up on Andrés’s pristine shoes. “Did you just fucking poison me?”</p><p>“There’s no such thing as delicious medicine, Mutt.”</p><p>“Yeah there fucking is. It’s called alcohol.” </p><p>Andrés murmurs something that sounded like “insolent little drunkard” before he disappears into the ensuite bathroom, emerging only a few short moments later holding a metal box full of medical supplies in one hand, and a dampened towel in the other. He takes a seat next to Martín on the bed and places the box in-between them, sighing as he folds the towel into quarters.</p><p>“You’ve got scratches on your arms.” he says, matter-of-fact. “They’re not so bad. The cut on your face, on the other hand, looks quite deep. I might have to suture it.”</p><p>Martín recoils the minute Andrés reaches for him, drawing a hand to cover the gash on his face. </p><p>But Andrés only grasps him firmly by the chin, twisting his face around so Martín has no other choice but to look at him.</p><p>“Hold still, will you?” Andrés says when Martín tries to flinch away again. “You’re fussier than a little girl.”</p><p>“I told you I’m fine.” He nearly snarls, still attempting to twist away, but the grip on his chin is unyielding. “<em>Andrés</em>, werewolves heal fast. It’ll be gone in a few hours if you just leave it.”</p><p>“Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean I want your blood all over the sheets.”</p><p>At this, Martín quickly concedes, allowing Andrés to dab the towel gently over the cut on his cheek and wipe away the blood that had dribbled down to his chin. Despite the harshness of before, he barely feels the brush of Andrés’s fingers dressing his wound until the vampire tips his head up to assess his handy work, careful to avoid touching the now bandaged gash.</p><p>Andrés seems pleased, as he moves to stroke his thumb over the base of Martín’s cheekbone before silently taking out a roll of gauze from his box.</p><p>“Your hands, please <em> querido.”  </em></p><p><em> Querido. </em>“Fuck.” Martín groans, suddenly feeling lightheaded. He holds his hands out anyway. “Don’t say shit like that when I’m hurt. I might pass out.”</p><p>Andrés only chuckles, and turns his head sideways as though to hide a smile. </p><p>
  <em> “Vale.”  </em>
</p><p>Who knew Andrés could be capable of such tenderness? His touch is featherlight, barely palpable and almost comforting. The way he smooths the gauze over Martín’s wounds, how he dabs the antiseptic so gently over the deeper cuts, carefully wrapping the bandages around his wrists. The act in itself already feels intimate, and coupled by Andrés’s touches — well Martín has never felt more taken care of in his life. </p><p>“The cut here is deep. I’ll need to tighten the dressing more so the pressure stops the bleeding.”</p><p>Martín nods in assent. No blood on the sheets, of course. That makes much more sense than Andrés wanting to take care of him. It’s not like he actually cares —</p><p>Andrés finishes bandaging his hands, tugging on the ends to make sure they’re secured. Once he’s satisfied with the work done, he carefully lays Martín’s hands back on his lap and starts to tidy up. He even offers Martín one of his robes to put on before he heads for the bathroom, but Martín clasps him by the arms and pulls him back. </p><p>“The sun didn’t hurt him.”</p><p>Andrés raises a brow. “What are you talking about?”</p><p><em> “</em>That — that vampire. When I broke the window, I tried to push him out into the sun, but he didn’t — he didn’t even <em> flinch. </em>Not even when the sunlight was right on his face. Like — like he wasn’t affected by it at all. And then he grabbed me by the neck —”</p><p>Andrés quickly cups his face, halting the words right in his mouth. He stares at Andrés and Andrés is staring right back at him, with a look on his face that almost makes Martín shudder. </p><p>Then his eyes flutter shut when Andrés slowly slips a finger beneath his jaw, tracing the skin there, looking for wounds. He has to remind himself not to do anything stupid like <em> groan </em>or something.</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>Martín swallows and lets out a hiss of pain. <em> “There.”  </em></p><p>Andrés hums, and suddenly there’s the cold sensation of a salve being applied to the bruise on his neck. Martín flinches at first, but then he sighs. Andrés’s touch is gentle, almost reverant, and the coolness of the salve spreading across his neck is soothing.</p><p>“Better?”</p><p>Martín nods, and he hears Andrés chuckle. Melodic, <em> beautiful</em>. When he opens his eyes, Andrés is gazing at him beneath hooded lids, his expression unnaturally soft, but with a wide smile on his face that Martín can’t help but match.</p><p>“Much better, thank you.”</p><p>He protests a little when Andrés eases him into bed. Even as a blanket is hauled over him, and Andrés is carefully <em> tucking him in, </em>Martín still attempts to get up, to insist on his recovery —</p><p>To which Andrés responds by effortlessly shoving him back down on the bed.</p><p>
  <em> “Stay.”  </em>
</p><p>His voice is gruff, <em> commanding. </em>Martín shudders when he hears it, feeling the fight drain out of him slowly as though Andrés had punctured holes into him, rendering him pliant and obedient. </p><p>He tries to look away, but finds that he’s unable to. Their eyes seem to lock onto each other. Andrés is keeping him down by the shoulders, pressing his entire weight over them, the pressure insistent but also <em> welcome.</em> Not to mention the way he’s hovering over him, it’s almost predatory in a way. Reminiscent of a lion pouncing on a helpless fawn before it goes in for the kill. It’s frightening, paralyzing, and utterly <em> tantalizing. </em></p><p>He knows that even if he tries to look stoic now, the erratic beating of his heart already betrays every single thought he refuses to speak out loud. </p><p>
  <em> Fuck.  </em>
</p><p>“You need to rest and get your strength back up.” Andrés murmurs, slipping a hand over Martín’s forehead and pushing his hair back. The gesture is uncharacteristically <em> kind </em> and <em> soft, </em> almost as if he <em> cares </em> about Martín, wants him to be <em> safe </em> or something like that. <em> Ridiculous. </em>“How will you protect me if you’re still hurt, hm?”</p><p>Martín’s throat feels dry, and Andrés laughs.</p><p>“Rest now. I’ll be back shortly to check up on you.”</p><p>With that, Andrés slithers out of their bed and gives one final tap of his palm to Martín’s cheek. It should be condescending, the way a mother would comfort her child with a scraped knee, but Martín quickly leans into the touch, almost sighing when Andrés pulls away. </p><p>“Andrés?”</p><p>The vampire stops just as he’s about to leave the room. He pauses by the door, one hand resting tentatively over the knob, the other tucked into the pocket of his stylish robe.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>Martín’s eyes feel heavy all of the sudden, and he can barely keep them open anymore. Almost as if a thousand years of sleeplessness condensed themselves into this one moment in time, and he can’t stop himself from quickly falling asleep, even as he tries to mumble something in protest. <em> No, wait </em>—</p><p>“That will be the sleeping draught.” he hears Andrés chuckle, followed by the sound of the door creaking shut. “Sweet dreams, Martín. I’ll see you later.”</p><p>Andrés seems to be saying something more, but Martín’s too far gone to make sense of any of it. The last thing he hears is that songful laughter fading into the distance, and then, after a while — nothing.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>When he wakes up, it’s nighttime.</p><p>“Good evening, sleeping beauty.” Andrés coos the minute Martín stumbles into the dining hall, trying not to trip over the fabric of the robe he was wearing. <em> Andrés’s robe. </em>“You must be hungry. Here, have some minestrone. I had the monks make it just for you.”</p><p>Martín grumbles in response, still woozy from whatever it was Andrés made him drink. He blindly tries to find his seat, grabbing at whatever might be in reach and pulling on what he <em> thinks </em>is the back of the dining chair (it was an empty candelabra), only to stumble backwards and fall to the floor.</p><p>Or he would have, had Andrés not swooped in to catch him in the nick of time.</p><p>“Take it easy, will you? You’re still hurt.”</p><p>Martín steadies himself against Andrés, gripping tightly on the back of his neck. “You <em> drugged </em> me.” he accuses, trying to sound angry but failing miserably.</p><p>Andrés smirks.</p><p>“That’s a rather harsh word to use. I’d prefer the term ‘medicated’.” </p><p>He gently guides Martín to sit down on a <em> real </em> chair and sets a bowl of the minestrone in front of him. Martín half expects him to fuck off and go do whatever it is vampires normally do at this time of night, but instead, Andrés pulls out a chair and takes the seat next to him, leaning his face against his hand and just <em> staring. </em>It’s absolutely nerve-wracking.</p><p>“What now?”</p><p>“Nothing.” Andrés shrugs, seemingly amused. “Just making sure you know how to eat by yourself. Otherwise, I’d be happy to spoon feed you.”</p><p>Martín scowls as he feels the heat rising in his cheeks. He quickly clears his throat. “Thank you for your generous offer, but I’m only injured, not crippled. I can manage.”</p><p>He grabs a spoon and attempts to eat, but his bandaged hands start shaking furiously the minute he brings the food anywhere near his mouth. Most of the pasta only ends up spilling onto the floor. <em> For fucks sake</em>. </p><p>He gives it a couple more tries and resolves to just give it up, when Andrés suddenly snatches the spoon from his hand and turns Martín’s chair to face in his direction.</p><p>“Watching you try to eat is like watching a puppy getting kicked repeatedly. Please, allow me to put you out of your misery.”</p><p>Martín is about to say: “No, I don’t want you to —” when Andrés shoves a spoonful of the minestrone into his mouth, making him yelp.</p><p><em> “Chew.” </em> Andrés orders, already scooping up the next serving. Martín, though momentarily dumbfounded, quickly does as he’s told, barely savoring the taste of the soup before he swallows, eyes wide.</p><p>“Good boy.”</p><p>“Oh, <em> fuck you.” </em></p><p>That bastardly mouth twitches. “There’s nothing wrong with needing a little help sometimes, Mutt. And you’ve been very brave today. You deserve it.”</p><p>Andrés offers him the next bite, much gentler this time, using his free hand to tip Martín’s chin slightly upward as he guides the spoon into his mouth. Martín is able to chew a little slower now, and while he does, he’s trying to decipher if the expression Andrés has on his face is one of mockery or affection. </p><p>“Another?” Andrés asks, fingers trailing across the bruise of Martín’s neck, still assessing. When Martín manages a meek nod, Andrés grins and pats his shoulder. “Very good. Here, open up.”</p><p>
  <em> This is ridiculous. </em>
</p><p>Andrés feeds him a few more bites before Martín gathers up some nerve to speak. But even then, his voice is shaky, unsure. As though the answer Andrés might give frightened him.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>It isn’t terribly eloquent of him, and as expected, Andrés sets the bowl aside and gazes at him with a curious look on his face. </p><p>“Why what, Martín?”</p><p><em> Why were you so rude to me the first time we met? Why did we end up hating each other so much? Why, out of every creature in this town, did you choose me to protect you? Why — </em>“Why are you suddenly being so nice to me?”</p><p>A beat passes and Andrés actually looks offended. “Martín, I thought it was obvious. You saved my life.”</p><p>
  <em> You saved my life.  </em>
</p><p>He sounds so sure, too. So <em> grateful. </em> “But you saved me as well.” Martín reminds him, playing with the bandages on his wrists. He winces at the memory of sharpened nails scratching at his arms. At the teeth that almost tore through his flesh. <em> So close. </em> “If you hadn’t come when you did, he would have killed me.”</p><p>A pair of elegant hands find his ugly, calloused ones, stopping him from tugging on the already loosened bandages. </p><p>Andrés says nothing as he swathes the cuts back up again, movements careful and precise, pausing only when he notices, for the first time, the scar on Martín’s wrist, just below his pulse.</p><p>“Is this <em> — </em>”</p><p>Martín quickly jerks his hand away as if he’d been burned. “Don’t.” he breathes, trying to suppress the anger he feels bubbling inside him, and the sob that seems compelled to claw its way out of his throat. “Andrés, please don’t.”</p><p>“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”</p><p><em> I’m sorry. </em> Martín almost laughs. It sounds so foreign coming out of Andrés’s mouth, so <em> unnatural</em>. To think the voice that Martín only ever heard taunting him in the streets is suddenly apologizing to him now makes the whole situation even more hilarious. More unbelievable. Andrés was always too proud, too grand to lower himself to speak to someone like Martín, let alone ask for his forgiveness.</p><p>It doesn’t seem right at all.</p><p>“Don’t apologize. You couldn’t possibly have known.”</p><p>Andrés huffs, astounded. “Listen, Mutt. I am tragically not able to read minds, but I know self-doubt when I see it.”  He purses his lips, as though considering something. Then he seizes both of Martín’s hands, squeezing his palms so tightly it almost hurts. </p><p>“Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not worth anything, Martín. Least of all me.”</p><p>The look in his eyes is intense. Martín doesn’t know what to make of it. </p><p>“I know you think that becoming a werewolf is one of the worst things to have ever happened to you. And you’re right, it might be. But,” Andrés carefully drags his thumb over the scar on Martín’s wrist, tracing the curved outline that formed the shape of a bite mark. “It’s not as bleak as you think it is. There’s some good in it too.”</p><p>Martín snorts. “The good in it being...?”</p><p>“It brought you to me.”</p><p>If Martín had been planning some smart ass reply, it immediately dies in his throat. The sound that comes out instead is a pathetic whimper of surprise.</p><p>“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Mutt. I know you feel the same.” </p><p>
  <em> Maybe I do.  </em>
</p><p>A moment passes and they both start to lean closer. Slowly, hesitantly. Like two magnets governed by forces beyond their control, they gravitate towards each other, unable to keep their distance. </p><p>Andrés is so close that when he parts his lips, Martín can feel the heat of his breath on his cheeks, and it makes him shudder. It seems only a matter of time before they finally snap together.</p><p>
  <em> “Ehem.” </em>
</p><p>Martín nearly sobs when Andrés pulls away, releasing his hands and placing them gently back down on his lap. The expression on his face is unreadable, but his mouth quirks into what appears to be a remorseful smile as he slowly rises from his chair. </p><p>If Andrés has any regrets about what happened (<em>or didn’t</em> <em>happen</em>) between them, it quickly dissipates the minute turns and sees who’s standing by the archway. </p><p>“Hermanito!” he exclaims, his face instantly lighting up with unabashed delight. He spreads his arms out and laughs. “Hermanito, you’re here.”</p><p>
  <em> Hermanito? </em>
</p><p>Right, Andrés has a brother. </p><p>The visitor quietly steps out of the shadows and Andrés practically runs towards him, a wide grin fixed on his face. He throws his arms around his brother and pulls him in for a tight hug that’s quickly reciprocated. And for a while, it’s silent as the two of them stand and sway together in the middle of the dining hall, oblivious to everything else around them.</p><p>Martín feels a strange pang of jealousy when, after a considerable amount of time, Andrés untangles himself from the embrace and plants an affectionate kiss on his brother’s cheek, playfully ruffling his hair when he pulls away. Martín thinks he’s never seen Andrés look so <em> soft </em>before. It’s a little endearing.</p><p>“It’s good to see you again, Sergio.”</p><p>The visitor <em>—</em> <em>Sergio —</em> cups Andrés’s face and nods. He’s slightly taller than Andrés is, and a bit more muscular too, with dark wavy hair and a thick beard and mustache he kept neatly trimmed. He’s wearing a plain gray suit, and it looks shabby next to Andrés’s colorful and ornately decorated robe. But more peculiar still are the pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that balance precariously over the bridge of his nose, hiding behind them two piercing brown eyes.</p><p>When those eyes briefly flicker to meet Martín’s, all the affection that had been directed towards Andrés instantly drains away, replaced by an icy, penetrating glare that almost makes Martín shiver. Almost.</p><p>“Andrés,” Sergio says, shifting his gaze back to his brother, effectively ignoring Martín. “I’ll need to see the corpse.”</p><p>“Oh, right. Yes.” Andrés claps his hands together. “Certainly. I almost forgot about the corpse.” </p><p><em> The corpse. </em> Martín’s face twists in disgust. “Hang on, you <em> kept </em>that thing?”</p><p>Andrés spins around as if he’d forgotten Martín was ever there, eyebrows raised in momentary bewilderment. Then he grins.</p><p>“Of course I did.” he says, as if it were completely normal to store the remains of murderous vampires somewhere within his household. “We’ll need to figure out how it managed to walk out into the sun unharmed. Now the witch must have left some trace of her magic, but we can’t be sure until we perform an autopsy. And my brother here has exceptional skill.” He throws his arm around his brother, squeezing his shoulder and grinning proudly at him before he turns back to Martín. “Martín, this is my little brother Sergio. Sergio, this is my uh, <em> my pet</em>, Martín.”</p><p><em> Pet. </em> Martín almost blushes, half thrilled and half insulted. He’s just about to say something like, <em> Your brother is an asshole and I’m his bodyguard, </em>when Sergio abruptly wrestles himself out of Andrés’s arms, and points an accusatory finger at him.</p><p>“That is a <em> lycanthrope!”  </em></p><p>Andrés sighs, looking unimpressed. “Congratulations, hermanito. Your spectacular observational skills astound me yet again.”</p><p>Sergio’s nostrils flare. He looks like he’s about to say something more when he catches sight of Martín watching them. Then he seems to deflate, or at least, temporary tamp down on whatever threatened to come out of his mouth. </p><p>“We don’t have time for this, Andrés. <em> Por favor</em>, where is the corpse?”</p><p>“Ah, hermanito. You’ve become considerably less fun ever since you started seeing that <em> — ” </em></p><p>
  <em> “Andrés.” </em>
</p><p>“Fine, fine.” Andrés seems to regard him for a moment, then he sighs and makes some crude gesture with his hand. “Right this way.”</p><p>As the two of them turn to leave, Martín loudly gets up from his chair and tries to follow. Andrés shakes his head, walking over to where Martín stands and unceremoniously pushes him back down to sit again.</p><p>“No, absolutely not. Stay here and rest. Your wounds will heal faster.”</p><p>Martín whines. <em> “But Andrés.”  </em></p><p>He knows he sounds like a spoiled brat, but he doesn’t care. He wants to go with them — specifically, he wants to be with Andrés. To have him close, to exist in his space. Wherever he goes Martín will follow. He’s decided. It’s what he wants. And If he has to beg for it, then so be it.</p><p><em> “Please.” </em> he says, even making a show of pouting his lips.</p><p>The display only seems to delight Andrés but infuriate Sergio, judging by the way those brown eyes glowered at him behind his spectacles. </p><p>Those eyes are like Andrés’s in many ways, dark and unreadable, with the same kind of sharpness and intensity to their gaze. But unlike Andrés, whose eyes seem to soften or even melt at the sight of Martín; Sergio continues to leer at him like he wants Martín to turn into stone.</p><p><em> Relax, I’m not trying to steal your brother. </em> Martín wants to tell him. <em> Not yet, anyway. </em></p><p>Almost as if he read Martín’s mind, Sergio’s eyes flicker with equal parts horror and concern. “Andrés I’d like to speak to you alone, <em> por favor.”  </em></p><p>He brusquely stalks out of the dining hall without even bothering to excuse himself, muttering something under his breath. Martín catches the suspicious glare that gets thrown his way before Sergio disappears down the corridor.</p><p>Andrés groans dramatically, watching his brother walk out. When he faces Martín, he silently mouths: <em> “Now look what you’ve done.” </em>but his smile is mischievous and sweet. Whatever worries Martín might have had about Sergio quickly disappears, and he finds himself grinning back.</p><p>“We can talk later.” Andrés soothes, tipping Martín’s chin up by the back of his hand. “I promise. But I need you to rest now, okay?”</p><p>Martín nods and Andrés strokes his cheeks. The touch is so soft, <em> gentle. </em>Martín nearly keens to it as he shuts his eyes.</p><p>When he opens them back up again, Andrés is gone.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Going to bed seems different now. A little strange and awkward, but not in the way that it had been before. </p><p>Andrés is waiting up for him when he finally enters their bedroom, leaning back on the headboard, too engrossed in another one of his sketches to look up. </p><p>As always, he looks beautiful. Well, he’s always been beautiful. But even more so now, in the absence of their once stubbornly held animosity. </p><p>Now Martín finds he can enjoy Andrés freely, without trying to confuse his obvious attraction with that of hatred or mistrust. He can praise his elegance, enjoy their banters, bask in his companionship, and he doesn’t have to feel <em> that </em>guilty about it. Because no one besides him has to know how he really feels.</p><p>Least of all Andrés.</p><p>Martín sighs and plucks out one of his nightshirts to change into. It was scratchy and airy compared to what he has on now. The robe Andrés had given him is lovely and luxurious, and he would have liked to go to bed feeling its warmth envelope him (the closest thing he can get to Andrés wrapping himself around him), but of course he’d never step out of bounds, especially when Andrés has been so kind to him, and Martín now wants so bad for Andrés to like him still <em> —  </em></p><p>“Keep the robe, it suits you”</p><p>Martín is sure he’s blushing, but he tries to feign normalcy. To maintain an ounce of dignity, though he’s sure he’d have no problems whatsoever throwing that out the window if Andrés so much as asks him to.</p><p><em> “Vale.” </em>he shrugs the robe back on, smiling at the now familiar warmth. “It’s starting to stink like me anyway.”</p><p>Andrés puts his sketchbook aside and fixes his eyes on Martín instead, as if to admire him. Slowly, he pats on the empty space of the bed next to him, smiling pleasantly.</p><p>“Joining me?”</p><p>Martín’s swallows as his heart starts hammering in his chest. It slowly dawns on him that, <em> Yes, he’s been sleeping next to Andrés for weeks now, </em> and <em> Yes, he gets to do it all over again. </em> </p><p>
  <em> Unfuckingbelievable.  </em>
</p><p>He gingerly slips under the sheets just as Andrés moves to lie down on his pillow. They laugh at the synchrony of their movements, at the fluidity and ease to which their bodies seem to move together. It feels lighter now, this whole arrangement. More comfortable. Like the barrier that had once stood between them suddenly collapsed, giving way to this endless surge of mutual fondness.</p><p>When Andrés smiles that crooked smile of his, it takes all of Martín’s willpower not to roll on top of him and kiss him breathless.</p><p>“Aren’t you going to bed? I know you’re tired.”</p><p>“I have to stay up and protect you.” Martín says stupidly. “Right?”</p><p>Andrés shakes his head, his laughter low and sonorous.</p><p>“No, you need to rest too. It’s all right,” he says, raising a hand up when Martín is about to protest. “My brother will be staying for the day. He’ll watch out for us both.”</p><p><em> Oh, Sergio’s staying over. Fantastic. </em>“Your brother doesn’t like me very much. I can tell.”</p><p>“Ah, don’t take it personally. He’s not fond of pets.” Andrés laughs, mockingly matching Martín’s pout. “For what it’s worth, he’s glad you were here to protect me. And he’s very thankful. Even if he can’t say it to your face.”</p><p>Martín hesitates, but then pulls up the covers against himself. <em> “Bien.” </em> he mutters, trying not to melt at the sight of Andrés watching him from his side of the bed, a soft smile on his lips. </p><p>He realizes then that he <em> is </em> tired after all, but he doesn’t want to fall asleep so soon; doesn't want to lose the image of Andrés looking at him so fondly<em>. </em>Like Martín is a thing of beauty and a thing of wonder that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of. </p><p>Who gives a damn about Sergio’s thanks when he has <em> that? </em></p><p>“Well. Good morning, then. Sweet dreams.” </p><p>Andrés smiles and sighs sleepily, stretching out his arms with a low groan. He’s just about to turn away when Martín catches him by the arm, and he stops, opting to shift his entire weight to face Martín directly, brows raised by a fraction. “Hm, something on your mind?”</p><p><em> I think you’re beautiful, </em> Martín wants to say. Or maybe something like, <em> I can’t believe we used to hate each other. </em> Perhaps even, <em> Andrés, I dream about you kissing me almost every night.  </em></p><p>Instead, he says: “You’re not so bad, for a bloodsucker, I mean.”</p><p>It looks as though Andrés didn’t expect him to say that at all. His brown eyes flicker up in surprise, the movement so miniscule it’s easily overshadowed by the way his lips part into a wide and cheeky grin.</p><p>“And you’re not so bad either, Mutt. For a werewolf, I mean.”</p><p>Martín laughs and Andrés’s smile only appears to broaden. Wordlessly, they both move towards each other, not near enough to touch, but <em> close, </em>their smiling faces separated only by the small gap between their respective pillows.</p><p>“I just realized something profound, Martín. Do you want to know what it is?”</p><p>If he nods much too quickly, he doesn’t care. “Tell me.” he says. <em> Tell me everything. </em></p><p>“I find that I thoroughly enjoy your company. A lot more than I thought I would.”</p><p><em> I know the feeling, </em> Martín thinks, managing to flash Andrés a wide grin before the latter yawns and shuts his eyes, a smile still plastered on his face. He murmurs something that sounded like <em>"</em><em>Sleep now, Mutt” </em> before his features soften, and Martín knows for sure he’s fallen asleep. Only then does he give himself permission to gaze, <em> to admire. </em></p><p>Handsome Andrés, with his smooth cheeks and skin like porcelain, perpetually frozen in time with his boyish good looks, yet carried within himself the air of something ancient and profound.</p><p>How can Martín ever live up to that?</p><p>He sighs at the thought and briefly tries to suffocate himself with the linen sheets thereafter, letting out a groan when he miraculously survives.</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p>“I think like you, Andrés.” he whispers so softly, he might as well be addressing his pillows. “I’ve grown to like you way more than I think I should.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>it's about the yearning™<br/>as always, yell at me in the comments. drop a kudo. all that good stuff. see you all very soon. xx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. hungry like the wolf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me: i can totally cut this into two parts<br/>also me: nah enjoy a whole 10k read everyone</p><p>ps. the alternate title for this chapter is "vampire dating simulator"</p><p>also check out the tags for an update, yeah?? contains a bit of sexy times but not that explicit</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Friendship blossomed between them quickly and easily after that, as naturally as the ice melted after winter, giving way to the flowers of spring. </p><p>In the past, Martín had struggled with his feelings for Andrés. Or more accurately, struggled with what he thought he should have felt towards him. <em> Hatred, disdain, mistrust.  </em></p><p>But now, all that pretense is gone, and Martín is left with no choice but to confront the truth.</p><p>He likes Andrés, despite of, and <em> because of </em>his flaws. That bastardly lopsided smile. His air of arrogance. The way he dresses like some foreign prince. </p><p>All those things Martín thought he hated about Andrés, he had now grown to love, to actively seek out. Some days, even he finds it hard to believe the two of them had once been sworn enemies. </p><p>
  <em> For how could anyone ever hate Andrés de Fonollosa? </em>
</p><p>Their arrangement more or less remains the same, but there is a fondness between them now. A <em> warmth. </em>Martín is surprised by how genuinely he enjoys Andrés’s company; at how much the two of them actually have in common.</p><p>For one thing, they stay up and talk now. In their bed. </p><p>Tonight, Andrés has his arms folded behind his head as he tells Martín about the time he studied art in Florence during the Renaissance, with the likes of Raphael and da Vinci among his ranks. </p><p>Martín is turned towards him, laying his head over his hand, listening intently. Andrés’s stories were starting to become a staple to him, and he refuses to let the night pass without hearing at least one of them.</p><p>“They found it suspicious that I always came to the studio at night.” Andrés chuckles. “They thought I was trying to sabotage their art.”</p><p>“And were you?”</p><p>“No, of course not.” Andrés scoffs dismissively, but his smile is teasing. “I would never defile other people’s works. But I will admit, I <em> was </em> notoriously clumsy in those days. Bumped into everything. A statue, a sculpture, a bowl of pigment —”</p><p>Martín shakes his head and laughs. “Oh, you asshole. You really are terrible.”</p><p>Andrés smirks at him before reaching out to pat his cheek. His thumb lingers just on the curve of Martín’s jaw, and Martín leans into it, the way he’s been leaning into almost all of Andrés’s touches these days. </p><p>“But not so terrible as for you to loathe, though. Right?”</p><p>The look in his eyes is expectant. <em> Endearing. </em> Martín sighs as he lays his hand on top of his, hoping Andrés doesn’t pull away too soon. He likes the warmth far too much, and if he isn’t careful, he just might roll over and melt right into Andrés’s arms.</p><p>“No, not anymore.” he admits. </p><p>
  <em> I don’t think I ever did.  </em>
</p><p>Andrés smiles and smooths his thumb over Martín's cheek one more time before he starts to drift off into sleep, his hand still laying gently over Martín’s face. Their fingers are delicately intertwined, twitching to each other’s touch, and when Martín squeezes his hand, he feels Andrés squeezing right back. </p><p>It’s in these moments of strange, unexpected intimacy that Martín feels a strong but unknowable feeling start to rise up inside him. Something that resembled desire — not just to take, or to have — but to<em> belong. </em>Wholly and completely to someone. </p><p>Andrés could have had any and all the protectors he wanted, but instead he chose Martín — and <em> only </em>Martín — who for several different reasons, shouldn’t have been anyone’s first choice at all.</p><p>“Then why choose me?” Martín asks, voice lower than a whisper. “You can have anyone in the world. Why me?”</p><p>Andrés stirs and sighs, pulling Martín closer until their foreheads are pressed together. His eyes remain closed but his grip on Martín’s face tightens considerably.</p><p>“And why not you?” Andrés murmurs. As though that in itself is already the answer.</p><p>And by the way Martín is unable to form a response, it might just as well be. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Soon enough, their conversations in bed extend well into their waking hours, and Martín finds himself spending more and more time within the monastery walls than he does outside of it. </p><p>He likes to lay out on the grass, impatiently waiting for the sun to set and for Andrés to finally wake. These days, the mornings seem to stretch on longer than they used to, and the evenings end far too quickly than he would have liked. </p><p>When he gets bored lounging about on his own, he makes his way back upstairs and curls into bed once more, falling asleep to the warmth of Andrés right next to him. When he wakes, it’s dark out again and there are gentle hands petting his hair, making him sigh in contentment.</p><p><em> “Buenas noches.” </em> Andrés would say, smiling softly when Martín opens his eyes. “What are we up to this lovely evening?"</p><p>Besides the nights he sets aside to feed, Andrés’s evenings are free for him to spend however he pleases. And Martín, uninterested to leave his side, lingers around him like a loyal puppy until the two of them figure out how to pass the time together. </p><p>They dance, they wrestle, they make up their own little games. Some nights, Andrés would read Martín poetry from the innumerable books he keeps in the library, other times he would teach him how to mix pigments and linseed oil together to make paint. </p><p>In return, Martín tells him stories of what life is like now during the daytime, and how much it’s changed since Andrés had last stepped out into the sun. He describes the clothes people wear, what kind of work they do, and sometimes, Andrés comes up with his own questions to ask.</p><p>“Tell me what color the sky was today, Martín.”</p><p>He’s slumped over one of his smaller easels, hands stained with dried paint that’s chipping at the edges. It was like him to ask for such things. To make Martín recount seemingly mundane occurrences and objects he would have otherwise overlooked. The color of the sky, the shape of mountaintops, the way birds cluster together in the horizon. </p><p>“Pink.” Martín replies after some thought. “But not that horrendous bright pink you see on cakes and gowns these days. It’s much softer, more natural. Sort of like —”</p><p>“The blush on your cheeks.” Andrés murmurs absentmindedly. He isn’t looking up from his easel, so he doesn’t see the way Martín flushes at his words. </p><p>“Ah, yes — I suppose you can put it that way — ”</p><p>“And what about the trees? Still green? Or are the leaves starting to brown?”</p><p>Martín bites his lip. “Brown.” he says. “Golden brown, almost bronze even. Like — like your eyes.”</p><p>Andrés looks up then, his grin wide and toothy. “Are you flirting with me, Mutt?” he asks, voice lathered with amusement. </p><p>“That depends, is it working?”</p><p>The laughter that follows is sweet and melodious. </p><p>“Come over here.” Andrés says, and Martín eagerly rises up from his rather comfortable position on the couch to stand behind Andrés instead, not even bothering to hide his enthusiasm.</p><p>“What do you think? Don’t worry, you can be honest.”</p><p>The paint on the canvas is still visibly wet, picking up the yellowish sheen of the candlelight and giving the whole picture an illusion of golden luminescence. Despite that, the image Andrés has painted remains clear. </p><p>It’s a landscape of the view outside the monastery. Except instead of the usual night scenery that Martín has come to associate with Andrés’s paintings, the scene is depicted during daytime, with the exact description Martín had given him only a few moments ago.</p><p>Bronze hued leaves. Sky the color of blush. </p><p>His cheeks heat up just looking at it. </p><p>“Ah. You hate it.”</p><p>“No!” Martín practically yells, and Andrés raises a skeptical brow at him. “No, no, I don’t hate it.<em> Of course not. </em> I just — it’s just —”</p><p>He flaps his arms about pathetically, trying to find the right words. <em> Any words. </em>But the feeling he has on the tip of his tongue is somehow completely inexpressible. </p><p>Andrés seems to understand though, as he playfully flicks his thumb just below Martín’s chin, chuckling in a low voice. </p><p>“Look at how the trees here contrast with the lightness of the horizon. And the jagged edge of that mountain. The flock of birds here too. And see how the bright yellow of the dawn gradually melts into that pink. Oh, Freidrich and Lorrain would weep at the sight of this, perhaps burn their own paintings out of sheer misery.”</p><p>Martín has no idea what the fuck Andrés is saying, but he doesn’t want to stop listening. He crosses his arms over his chest and nods his head fervently to every word that comes out of Andrés’s mouth. </p><p>“My first daylight landscape in over centuries.” Andrés murmurs wistfully. He suddenly whips his head around, and the look on his face makes Martín’s heart lurch treacherously in his chest. </p><p>“The world through your eyes, Martín. <em> It is a gift. </em> Thank you for sharing such beauty with me.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>And so in the same way miners slowly chip away at bedrock to reveal precious gemstones, Martín begins to see pieces of Andrés he never imagined were there. Bit by bit, these tiny fragments reveal themselves to him, and each revelation always comes as a surprise.</p><p>For example: Andrés has always been graceful and poised, but there’s a playfulness to him. A childish vigor. </p><p>It first shows itself to Martín during dinner, when they start hurling lighthearted insults at each other (just for old time’s sake), and Andrés laughs like a maniac as he flings a piece of pasta at Martín, hitting him right in the forehead.</p><p>“Hey!” Martín yells, trying not to laugh with him. (It was impossible). “You fucking bastard!”</p><p>Andrés grins and shrugs his shoulders, feigning nonchalance. </p><p>“You asked for it.”</p><p>Martín growls and lunges for him then, pushing the still giggling Andrés down to the carpeted floors. They laugh and wrestle and <em> squeeze </em> until they turn into a mass of limbs all tangled up together, impossible to tell apart. </p><p>“Fight me.” Martín says, hands propped on either side of Andrés’s face. “Come on, fight me. I know you want to.”</p><p>Andrés looks up at him with a lazy smile. “No.” </p><p>“Why not?” Martín frowns. He lightly shakes Andrés by his shoulders, playful and impatient. “Andrés. <em> Come oooon</em>. Fight me.”</p><p>Andrés merely laughs and shoves his hands away. “I don’t want to fight you, Mutt. You’re stronger than me. I’d lose.”</p><p>“How would you know if you don’t try?”</p><p>Martín tips his head with a wry smile and Andrés half groans, half laughs.</p><p>“You are absolutely incorrigible. I should have spent more time training you.”</p><p>He pushes Martín off of him and tries to get up, but Martín is quick. <em> Impulsive. </em>He grabs Andrés by the lapels of his suit and hauls him back down on the ground, palms over his chest. </p><p>Andrés’s eyes flash with anger for a brisk moment, staring at Martín’s hands and slowly trailing his gaze upwards, until their eyes meet, bronze against blue. Martín braces himself for Andrés’s retaliation, but the vampire only laughs, head tipped back far enough to reveal the smooth skin of his neck. Martín almost whines just seeing it.</p><p>“You have pasta sauce on your face, Mutt.”</p><p>He suddenly finds himself with his back against the floor and Andrés’s hands pinning him down by his wrists, grip tight enough to make him gasp.</p><p>His back hurts a little but he doesn’t mind. Andrés is looming over him with a curious expression on his face. Brows furrowed, lips slightly parted, as though assessing the sight of Martín below him, breathing deeply with scarlet cheeks. </p><p>Then Andrés leans in, slow but deliberate, his mouth inches away from Martín’s ear.</p><p>“Tell me to stop.” he whispers, voice uncharacteristically raspy. <em> Strained. </em>“Tell me to let you go.”</p><p>Martín swallows when he feels Andrés’s breath against the side of his face. </p><p>“I don’t want you to.”</p><p>Andrés chuckles, and Martín nearly whines when he suddenly pulls away, releasing his hands and leaving the place where their skin had touched empty and burning. </p><p>But then Andrés smiles, gently cupping his face and dragging one of his thumbs firmly over Martín’s cheek, no doubt wiping away the sauce that had splattered there. </p><p>“Have I ever told you the story of how I used to hunt humans?” </p><p>Martín shakes his head weakly, and Andrés laughs again. He takes the thumb he had used to wipe the sauce off, puts it straight into his mouth, and sucks it clean. Martín lets out a soft groan at the same time Andrés smacks his lips. </p><p>“Well, it was a lot like this.” Andrés continues, as though completely unaware of the effect he has on Martín. “I’d lure them in, somewhere dark and quiet, under the premise of seduction.”</p><p>Andrés presses his nose against the crook of Martín’s neck, dragging it lightly across the skin. Each breath palpable. Martín clenches his fists tightly, arms still at his side, not daring to touch Andrés, to even <em> move</em>, lest he break the spell —</p><p>“And then, somewhere in the middle of it, they would realize what I am. And what I was about to do.” Andrés murmurs, gripping Martín by his chin, craning his neck up. “And if they were clever enough, they’d try to bargain with me. They’d let me feed just until I was satisfied, and in exchange I’d spare their lives. But then —”</p><p>Martín gasps when Andrés presses his thumb against the base of his throat, making the skin taut, highlighting the contrast of darkened veins against pale skin. </p><p>There is an intensity to Andrés’s gaze. An unspoken sort of hunger. <em> Where is your desire? </em>Martín wants to ask. But he’s paralyzed, too enthralled by the fingers on his throat and the eyes staring intently at his neck to utter a single word.</p><p>So he swallows, and the bobbing of his throat seems to snap Andrés out of his daze. Even so, Martín doesn’t want him to pull away just yet.</p><p>“But then?”</p><p>Andrés hums, tracing his fingers along the curve of Martín’s Adam’s apple.</p><p>“But then I never let them live.” he whispers. “Never. If they wanted to survive, they had to fight back. They had to kill me.”</p><p>His eyes flicker up and they regard each other with silent stares.</p><p>“Would you kill me, Martín?”</p><p>The answer comes to him so swiftly that he speaks without hesitation. </p><p>
  <em> “Never.” </em>
</p><p>Andrés grins, delighted, and Martín catches the sight of his fangs just before he bends down and grazes the sharpened tips over Martín’s skin, making the latter yelp in surprise. </p><p>Then Andrés <em> bites, </em> not with enough pressure to pierce through skin, but hard enough to leave two reddened dots in their place once he pulls away. Like a mark of ownership. A claim that Martín belonged to him and him alone. </p><p>“I will bleed you dry.” Andrés says simply.</p><p>Martín swallows. <em> And I’ll let you </em>— he almost says out loud.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The illusion of their domesticity completely shatters itself a few nights later, when the moon becomes full. </p><p>Martín wakes up alone in bed to Andrés moaning loudly in another room, no doubt being pleasured in the hands of a lover. The sound rips through him like a jagged blade, shredding his insides irreparably. </p><p>It feels like Andrés had snatched the ground beneath his feet, sending him spiraling down into a dark and endless chasm. Forgotten, <em> rejected. </em>Reminding him exactly where he belonged. </p><p>Instinctively, he drags his hand to the empty space next to him. Still warm, with the shape of Andrés’s head still molding the pillows. Martín buries his nose into the sheets, desperate to inhale his scent, to ignore what was clearly taking place in the other room —</p><p><em> “Ah, bella.” </em> he hears Andrés say, punctuated by another pleasured moan. “Oh. You beguiling creature, you temptress, yes that’s — <em> oh </em> — that’s right — you know just how to pleasure me, don’t you?”</p><p>Martín catches a distinctly female giggle that makes tears begin to prickle his eyes. And when he hears Andrés start to moan again, he’s unable to stop a pathetic sob from escaping his mouth.</p><p>
  <em> “Please.”  </em>
</p><p>He doesn’t know what exactly he’s asking for. And he hates himself for letting it get this far. For allowing such fantastical delusions to poison his mind, tricking him into thinking that Andrés wants him in any way, let alone the same way he wants Andrés. </p><p><em> I chose you, </em> Andrés had said. But the sentiment tastes bitter now, and Martín wants to spit the words right out of his mouth. <em> I chose you. You chose me back.  </em></p><p>He seemed so genuine, too. So sweet. Andrés had pulled him close and pressed their foreheads together, his skin as warm as a hearth in winter.</p><p>
  <em> And why not you? </em>
</p><p>Another moan echoes through the walls and drives the image of Andrés out of his head. Martín forces his eyes shut, trying to drown it all out.</p><p>Why not him indeed?</p><p>He rolls out of bed and falls flat onto the ground, the back of his head smacking hard against the hardwood floors. The jolt of pain is enough to snap him out of his self-imposed suffering. </p><p>
  <em> Fuck.  </em>
</p><p>His body feels heavy, like it’s weighed down by a thousand stones. Joints too stiff, muscles aching. It takes considerable strength to push himself up to a sitting position, and once he does, he merely plops back against the side of the bed, too exhausted to even breathe. </p><p>Then the real pain comes. </p><p>It starts from the scar on his wrist. A throbbing, fiery pain that traces the area of the bitemark, slowly coursing up to his arms, his shoulder, then his neck — until his whole body feels like it's been set on fire.</p><p>“<em>No.” </em>he cries, but his voice is no longer his own. It’s deeper, raspier. Closer to that of a beast than a man.</p><p>No no no no no.</p><p>The scorching pain only worsens when his bones start to break and reform, when the joints begin twisting and turning upon themselves. He can hear the way they crack, like twigs snapping in the woods. First his ankles, then his arms, bending into the wolf’s legs. Then his hands start turning into paws with sharpened claws, scratching and ripping through the floorboards with ease. </p><p>And his blood — of course there’s blood — everywhere, staining the wood — Andrés’s sheets —</p><p>The pain moves up to his head, and he screams when the bones of his face start growing out torturously slow, breaking through his skin to form the wolf’s snout. He feels the way it pokes through, how it cuts through layers of muscle and fat. </p><p>He falls into the pool of his own blood, spasming wildly. Unable to stop the excruciating pain that courses through his body. <em> Please, please, please. Let it kill me. Let me die. Make it all end. Please, please, please. </em></p><p>The last thing he remembers is the howl that forces its way out of his throat, and the thick scent of blood coming from the opposite room.</p><p><em> Kill Andrés, </em>the wolf says. </p><p>And then everything goes dark.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Martín gasps when he wakes, surprised to find himself back in bed.</p><p>His whole body aches like hell, and he can barely move without feeling tremendous strain. His head is throbbing too. Like someone had rammed a nail in-between his eyes. But somehow he’s warm, tucked into bed, wearing Andrés’s clothes, and more importantly, he’s not lost and naked in some distant field somewhere, trying to get home without being seen. </p><p>He sighs and almost falls right back into sleep. Nothing about this seems right. Not the salves coating his hands, nor the blanket wrapped around him. Perhaps it had all been a terrible dream after all, just like all the others. An extremely vivid one that might have made him thrash and scream himself into exhaustion, and it’s possible he could have hurt himself then. But still, he can’t shake off the awful feeling in his gut that he’d done something terrible, something <em> unforgivable </em> —</p><p>His thoughts are interrupted by two hushed voices arguing from just behind the door, getting louder and more heated the longer he listens. He sucks in a deep breath when he hears things being slammed and tossed aside, metal against wood.</p><p>“— can’t keep him here, he’s dangerous. He’s unpredictable. You saw what he did — ”</p><p>“He has saved my life countless of times — ”</p><p>“And last night he almost killed you!” There’s an exasperated sigh, followed by the sound of clothes rustling. “Andrés, <em>por favor,</em> as your brother I am begging you to stop this madness — ”</p><p>“I will not send him away. <em> No, </em> I don’t want to discuss it anymore. <em> Sergio </em>— ”</p><p>Martín hears the sound of shoes stomping angrily, then a door suddenly slamming shut, hard enough to make the paintings on the wall start to wobble in place. </p><p>“Fine!” he hears Andrés yell. “Be like that. Abandon me here and go back to your wretched woman. Forget that you even have a brother at all —”</p><p>Martín startles when he hears something break, followed by Andrés swearing.</p><p>
  <em> “Hijo de puta.” </em>
</p><p>The door clicks open and Martín partially shuts his eyes, feigning sleep just as Andrés saunters in. He’s scowling, no doubt a residue of the argument he just had, but as soon as his gaze lands on Martín, his expression melts into something soft.</p><p>Martín almost purrs when delicate fingers start carding through his hair, tugging on the strands with just enough force to feel pleasurable. </p><p>Greedy thing that he is, he can’t help himself from opening his eyes. To see that handsome face up close and bask in the warmth of that smile. And he isn’t disappointed either. In fact, he’s nearly overwhelmed. For nothing in the world could ever prepare him for the way Andrés is looking at him, with only infinite tenderness behind those eyes.</p><p>“How are you feeling, Martín? Are you still hurting?”</p><p>Martín shakes his head weakly. </p><p>“No.” he croaks, frowning at the scratchy sensation in his throat. “Just a little sore.”</p><p>Andrés chuckles and helps pull Martín up to a sitting position. “I’ll get you some water.”</p><p>As Andrés reaches for the pitcher on the nightstand, that’s when Martín sees it. The giant gash on his arm, wrapped around clumsily with a bandage that’s almost soaked through with blood. </p><p>Martín feels like he’d been struck in the chest with a sword made of silver. Hot and burning. It feels almost like dying, the way the dread washes over him. Eating him from the inside out. </p><p>Andrés must have caught him staring, because he quickly draws his hand back, jaw set so tightly Martín can see the strain on his neck. </p><p>Then Andrés pulls out an aid kit from under the bed, and starts working to redress his wounds while Martín stares on helplessly. </p><p>He feels like throwing up, dizzy all of the sudden, with the taste of bile already coating the back of his throat. </p><p>“Is that — ”</p><p>Andrés turns to him briefly, and his expression is apologetic. Pitiful. “I had to lock you down in the cellar.” He says, trying to smile. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Like I said, Mutt. You're stronger than you look.”</p><p>It suddenly feels as though darkness has swallowed him whole. Like he’d been devoured by something sinister. His ears start ringing, and his vision turns blurry, warping objects into distorted shapes and blobs of color. All indistinguishable. All meaningless. </p><p>“Martín.”</p><p>Andrés’s voice sounds distant, as though he’s in a glass case and Martín can only hear muffled echoes. He thinks he starts crying, because Andrés’s eyes suddenly grow wide and he stops bandaging his wound, pulling Martín onto his lap and holding him tightly instead.</p><p>“I’m sorry.” Martín sobs, tightening their embrace. He wants to hold Andrés until they merge together, until every part of him is a part of Andrés. Inseparable. Whole. “I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry —”</p><p>“Don’t be an idiot.” he hears Andrés sigh, petting his hair gently. “It’s not your fault.”</p><p><em> “But I hurt you.” </em>Martín pulls away then, gripping Andrés by his shoulders. Surely he knows what Martín has done. Surely he understands what it means. “I hurt you, Andrés. I hurt you.”</p><p>Andrés should do the sensible thing and send him away. Banish him for good, from the monastery and from his life. Make sure Martín never gets his hands on the cure so he suffers forever, it’s exactly what he deserves — </p><p>“Stop it.” Andrés hisses, shaking him roughly. He sounds almost furious. “Martín, stop.”</p><p>He tries to obey, and the tears cease just long enough for him to gasp in a deep breath, and Andrés quickly cups his face. He’s shaking so bad — </p><p>“Take it easy. Breathe. Slow and deep, that’s it.”</p><p>Martín sniffs and looks up at him. Their gazes meet, like the clash of ocean waves against the earth during a storm, violent and dangerous. Forces not to be tampered with. </p><p>Andrés looks like he’s about to speak, but Martín doesn’t let him. He slips off Andrés and reaches for the bandages that had fallen to the floor, playing with them in his hands for a while, almost trying to gauge their worth. </p><p>Wordlessly, he takes Andrés’s injured arm and wraps the bandages around the cut. He’s not as gentle as Andrés is, granted he’s too hurt himself to think about the grace of his actions, but he finishes the job quickly, surprised that Andrés doesn't try to stop him. </p><p>“Your brother was right. I’m more of a danger to you than I am a protector. I almost killed you, didn’t I?” He starts sobbing again, and he reluctantly lets go of Andrés’s now bandaged arm before he falls back on the bed, tears already streaming down his face.</p><p>“I should be the one taking care of you.” Martín mumbles as Andrés settles next to him. “Not the other way around.”</p><p>“Hush.” Andrés says, wiping the tears that keep spilling down Martín’s face. “You’re exhausted. And hurt. You’re not making any sense.” </p><p>Martín sniffs. “It’s true.”</p><p>“It isn’t.” Andrés says firmly. He throws an arm over Martín’s shoulder and pulls him close, letting Martín bury his face on the crook of his neck, soaking his expensive robe with tears. </p><p>“You should send me away.”</p><p><em> “Never.” </em>Andrés says immediately, tightening his grip. Squeezing hard, as though he wants Martín to be crushed into a pulp in his arms. “I will never send you away. Do you understand? No one can make me. Not Sergio, not the witch, and especially not you.”</p><p>Martín keens when Andrés starts to pet his hair. The touch is so tender that he allows himself to be held.</p><p>They lie like that for a moment, clinging stubbornly to one another, neither one loosening their grip. Martín keeps sobbing and Andrés keeps stroking his hair absent-mindedly, not saying a single word. </p><p>When Martín eventually cries himself dry, he reluctantly pulls away. “I’m sorry, I made you stay up.”</p><p>Andrés laughs softly and wipes Martín’s face with the sleeves of his robe. He doesn’t say anything, he only pulls Martín back into a hug, hooking his chin over Martín’s head and sighing.</p><p>“I should be the one to apologize.” Andrés says after a while. He’s stroking Martín’s arm gently. Soothing him. “I’m the one keeping you here. I’m the one depriving you of your cure.”</p><p>“You’re not.” Martín breathes, nuzzling against his chest. In truth, he had forgotten all about the cure. Didn’t remember it at all, not even as he was Turning. All he could think of these past few weeks was Andrés. And how Andrés made him happy. And how he never wanted to be away from him ever again. </p><p>And if Andrés only wants him because he's a werewolf who could protect him, then Martín will willingly suffer every month for the rest of his life. Just as long as Andrés keeps him. </p><p>“Will you stay with me then?” </p><p>Martín sighs and clasps the fabric of Andrés’s robe, bundling it up tightly into his fist. “I promised to protect you, Andrés.” he whispers. “And I’ll stay with you for as long as you want me.”</p><p>He feels the arms around him loosen at first, before he’s completely released. Martín only has enough time to gasp when Andrés rolls on top of him and does the most unexpected thing. </p><p>He quickly cups Martín’s face between his hands, and before Martín could say a word— before he could even react, Andrés leans in and plants a kiss on his cheek. </p><p>It isn’t chaste, or light, or hesitant. </p><p>It’s a lingering kiss. <em> Purposeful. </em> Deep and long and tender in a way that almost betrays a reverence. As though Martín is a precious thing, <em> a jewel, </em> to be handled gently and adoringly. He sighs into it. The warmth of Andrés’s mouth, the tenderness in which those elegant fingers cradle his face. </p><p>And when Andrés finally peels his lips off Martín’s now burning cheek, the sound of his mouth parting, that tiny smack when the suction breaks, is as loud as the rumble of thunder before a storm. </p><p>“Thank you.” Andrés says, still cupping Martín’s face even as he rolls back down on the bed. “For staying with me a bit longer.”</p><p><em> Kiss me again, </em> Martín thinks. <em> And I’ll stay with you forever. </em></p><p>But Andrés only nudges him back into an embrace, and the moment passes. </p><p>“I’ll protect you just as you protect me.” Andrés says, his face buried into Martín’s hair. Inhaling his scent. Martín shudders to the lips that press gently over his temple. It feels like a promise. “You and I, Martín. We protect each other.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Several days have passed since the full moon, but the toll the transformation had taken on his body still lingers, leaving Martín weak. And useless.</p><p>He’s confined to the monastery until further notice, under Andrés’s watchful eye. Each time he tries to exert himself in any way, may it be trying to shorten his bed rests or <em> god forbid, </em>try to confront a possible intruder, Andrés is quick to chastise him. To drag him back to the room and into bed, ordering him to stay put.</p><p>At one point he even threatens to shackle Martín to the headboard, but not in the way Martín wants him to, of course. </p><p>In the beginning, he liked all the attention. The way Andrés doted on him, the way he worried for him. He felt cared for, <em>precious </em>even. </p><p>But then Sergio’s visits become more frequent, and his stays much longer. Martín can’t handle his glares, or his little whispers to Andrés, and not to mention, the absurd feeling he has that he’s being somehow replaced —</p><p>The worst thing, however, is how caged he suddenly feels. Trapped in the dark confines of the monastery, worried that something might lunge at him from the dark. And while he has grown to enjoy the time he spends with Andrés, there are days where he just needs to run across an open field and lay out breathless beneath the sun. To feel the heat of the afternoon on his face and the sweat dribbling down his back. </p><p>Andrés’s world is beautiful and mysterious, just like Andrés is. And Martín loves it, just as he loves Andrés.</p><p>But still he yearns for moments where he’s free of the darkness that consumes Andrés’s day to day life. When he’s able to step out into a world full of warmth and brightness and <em> life.</em></p><p>He admits he’s been missing it quite a bit.</p><p>“How do you bear it?” Martín asks one night during dinner.</p><p>Andrés is sprawled casually on a chair across from him, the goblet in his hand containing a suspiciously thick red liquid that Martín is certain isn’t wine. </p><p>“Bear what, Martín?”</p><p>He looks at Andrés for a long time, chewing his food slowly before he speaks. “Living like this. In the dark. Never seeing sunlight. How does it not drive you completely crazy?”</p><p>Andrés purses his lips before he shrugs. “Years of getting used to, I suppose.”</p><p><em> Of course. </em>"I wouldn’t last one night as a vampire.” Martín says with certainty. “I hate the dark.”</p><p>He stabs violently at a piece of roast beef and hears Andrés chuckle as he stuffs it roughly into his mouth, letting the juices dribble down to his chin.</p><p>“Ah Mutt, but don’t you know there are certain beauties that can only be marveled at during the night?”</p><p>“Like what? The moon?” Martín scoffs bitterly. He stares at Andrés’s arm, still wrapped tightly in a bandage from where his wolf form had scratched him. Vampires are fast, more agile, but they don’t heal as quickly as werewolves do. Martín will be forced to confront his sins for at least another week. </p><p>He bites his lip to stop himself from sobbing. “I fucking hate the moon.”</p><p>There’s a gush of wind and the clattering of cutlery when Andrés suddenly appears in front of him, grabbing the fork out of his hand before he intertwines their fingers. He looks <em>angry,</em> almost possessed. Like Martín’s words struck him in a way neither of them expected.</p><p>“Andrés — ”</p><p>“Art thou pale for weariness / Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, / Wandering companionless —” </p><p>Martín blinks and Andrés continues, ignoring the look of utter bewilderment on Martín’s face that practically screams: <em> What the fuck?  </em></p><p>“ — Among the stars that have a different birth, / And ever changing, like a joyless eye / That finds no object worth its constancy?”</p><p>It’s silent for a while before Martín breaks it. He sounds more bitter than he means to. “Is that how you get your girls to have sex with you? By quoting Shelley?”</p><p>Andrés laughs, but it’s cruel. Like a slap in the face. “Is that what this is about? You’re being sullen because of <em> that?” </em></p><p>Martín glares. <em> It isn’t just that, you self-obsessed bastard.  </em></p><p>“Then what is it?”</p><p>He didn’t realize he had spoken the words out loud. If he wasn’t so angry and pissed off, he might be more inclined to feel guilty about it. </p><p><em> Fuck it, </em>he thinks. </p><p>“The dark reminds me of everything I hate about myself.” he confesses, watching that smug smile falter and slip from Andrés’s face. “It’s the parts of myself I can’t control. The one that’s bound to the curse. I became what I am because of the dark. The monster that can protect you, but also the one that — that hurt you.” </p><p>He pulls his hands away, then, and gets up from his seat. Andrés rises and follows him with narrowed eyes. </p><p>“I hurt you, Andrés. I can’t even protect you from myself.” He sighs pathetically, like a child with a broken toy. “And there are a thousand other people out there who can do a better job than me. Who could be everything for you — not just this one thing but —” <em>But everything.  </em></p><p>A beat passes. </p><p>Then Andrés laughs at him again. </p><p>“You’re stupid if you think you don’t matter to me, Martín.” he says, tone biting. “And you’re stupid for being so jealous. All those women who come here. Yes, I seduce them. I bed them. I drink their blood. But after all that, I send them away. Because they don’t matter to me. You, on the other hand?<em> I keep. </em> Why do you think that is?”</p><p>Martín’s lip quivers. <em> It’s obvious, isn’t it? </em> “Because we had a deal.” </p><p>
  <em> Because you still need me.  </em>
</p><p>Andrés narrows his eyes even further, all humor gone in an instant. “Do you really think that’s all this is?”</p><p>He doesn’t know what Andrés wants him to say. He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t just come out with it already. To just say outright what he wants him to know. </p><p>Martín feels so angry all of the sudden. Like he wants to punch Andrés. To slap him, to tear at his face. Make him hurt.</p><p>“What else is there, Andrés?”</p><p>The bastard only smiles at him. <em> “Tamquam alter diem.” </em></p><p><em> For fucks sake. </em>“You should realize by now I’m not as cultured as you, right? I don’t understand half the poetic bullshit that comes out of your mouth.”</p><p>Andrés sighs, disappointed. <em>“Clearly.”</em> he drawls. </p><p>Now Martín really wants to punch him in the face. </p><p>“Hm. I should really read more of the Classics to you, Mutt. I’ve been too focused on the Romantics these days. Your education is lacking.”</p><p>“I have an Engineering degree, you dick —”</p><p>Andrés waves a hand dismissively, and Martín rolls his eyes, bracing himself for another one of Andrés’s philosophical spiels. Normally, he would fall asleep listening to Andrés talk about nonsense, finding comfort in the sound of his voice alone. But today he’s been in such a sour mood, that all he wants is for the pretentious bastard to shut the fuck up already.</p><p>“Tamquam alter diem.” Andrés repeats, and Martín tries to suppress a groan. “Cicero had used the term to mean ‘as if a second self’, to describe a very trustworthy friend. Someone truly beloved. <em> Tamquam</em>, which could be translated as, <em> ‘as it were’ </em> or <em> ‘so to speak’</em>. And <em> alter diem</em>, which can mean <em> ‘other I’</em>, or <em> ‘other self’</em>. Like one’s alter ego. A soulmate. The other half of a person’s soul.” </p><p>Martín is paralyzed when Andrés grabs him by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet. </p><p><em>“Tamquam alter diem.</em> That’s what you are to me, Martín. To sever from you is to cut myself in half. To kill my soul. And perhaps my <em>'</em><em>poetic bullshit' </em>as you call it, might not make much sense to you now, but I promise you, one day, I’ll show you exactly what those words mean.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>That day comes a week later, when Andrés decides Martín is well enough to walk on his own, and takes him out on a midnight stroll through the woods. </p><p>“Andrés, where the hell are we going?”</p><p>“Have a little faith, Mutt.” he hears Andrés call from the distance, laughter evident in his voice. “We’re almost there. Just trust me.”</p><p>
  <em> Just trust me.  </em>
</p><p>Martín rolls his eyes but continues to blindly follow Andrés in the dark, listening to the squelching of the mud beneath his boots. It had been raining non stop for days now, and it left Martín cooped up in the monastery longer than he should have been. Still, he’s glad he can finally walk outside again, even though he is still a bit sore.</p><p>“Mutt, quit lagging behind and get over here.” he hears Andrés grumble. “I swear, sometimes it’s like you’re not a wolf at all.”</p><p>“Fuck you.” Martín says as soon as he reaches Andrés. He’s a little out of breath, but that’s <em> only </em>because he hasn’t had proper exercise in a while, and not because he was getting old or anything like that. “Okay, I’m here. Where the fuck are we?”</p><p>“You’ll see.”</p><p>Andrés grips his arm and drags him towards a clearing where they find two horses tied to a tree and a man sitting by a nearby rock. The man — <em> the boy </em>— startles when he hears the two of them approaching, standing in attention as soon as Andrés comes to a stop before him.</p><p>“Sleeping on the job again, are we Aníbal?”</p><p>“No, of course not Señor.” the boy splutters. He makes quick work of undoing the knots that kept the horses timidly in place before he hands them to Andrés. “Aethon and Pyrios, just as you requested. They are in good shape, Aethon most especially. He’s the fastest in training.”</p><p>“Of course he is.” Andrés purrs, stroking the horse's neck, letting his fingers slip through its fine golden hair. The stallion is large and muscular, with a clean white coat worthy of Greek myth that Andrés seems to caress adoringly. Martín would have mocked him for looking like such a pathetic, doting mother, if he hadn’t been approached by the boy too, handing him the reins for the other horse. This one is a dark brown gelding that’s much smaller than Aethon, its hair as black as writing ink. </p><p>When it neighs, Martín steps back, appalled.</p><p>“No fucking way, I’m not riding that — that <em> beast</em>.”</p><p>“Beast.” Andrés’s lips curl in distaste, turning away from his horse to narrow his eyes at Martín. “You’re one to talk.”</p><p>“You know what I mean, asshole.” Martín snaps, swatting the boy’s hand away when he refuses to back off. Somehow, the horse appears to sense his rejection, as it scratches its hoofs against the dirt and makes a huffing sound that seems to be lathered with contempt. Martín makes a face at it.</p><p>“I don't know how to fucking ride horses, okay?”</p><p>Andrés seems surprised. “You don’t?”</p><p>“No.” Martín snickers and shakes his head. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of growing up with a silver spoon shoved up our ass.”</p><p>He hears Anibal giggle. “Um, I think the expression is a ‘<em>silver spoon in your mouth’ </em>not up your —  uh —” The boy quickly shuts his mouth and averts his gaze to the ground. Andrés is glaring daggers at him. </p><p>“Aníbal, take Pyrios back to the stable for now.” he orders, stepping towards Martín with a sly smirk. </p><p>The boy quickly nods and disappears into the dense forest thicket with Pyrios trotting behind him. He gives Martín one last nervous glance before the darkness swallows him whole, and the night is quiet once more. </p><p>Suddenly, it’s just Martín and Andes again. Alone. The scene feels dreadfully familiar, and Martín’s sense of déjà vu only worsens when Andrés moves toward him, as silent as a mountain cat on the hunt. He steps away until he’s pressed up against the trunk of a tree, expecting Andrés to keep their distance. But the vampire doesn’t stop and continues to pursue Martín with a predatory grin. </p><p>“What are you so afraid of?” Andrés murmurs, tipping his head to the side. Martín lets out a breathy laugh, shakier than he would have liked.</p><p>“The last time I was alone in the woods with a man, it didn’t end well for me.”</p><p>Andrés clicks his tongue. “I think out of the two of us, I’m the one who’s in greater danger of being hurt.”</p><p>Martín feels that pang of regret again, gnawing at his heart. But before it can consume him, Andrés smiles and slides the back of his hand against Martín’s cheek. Just like that, his demons are appeased. At least temporarily. </p><p>“One day I’ll teach you to ride horses, Mutt, and you’re going to love it so much you’ll be begging me to take you out riding every night.”</p><p>Martín is half-way through a groan when Andrés quickly takes one of his hands, and he sighs in defeat, knowing he’ll never be able to deny Andrés anything. He will always get his way. Martín makes sure of it.</p><p>“There are easier ways to seduce me, you know.”</p><p>Andrés smirks. “You’re getting awfully cheeky, Mutt. We’ll see how long you’re able to keep it up once you see my surprise.”</p><p>“A surprise?” Martín’s eyes are suddenly as wide as a startled deer’s. <em>A surprise for me? </em></p><p>“I don’t wish to spoil it.” Andrés says, a playful glint sparking in his eyes. “If you want to know what it is, you’ll have to come with me and find out for yourself.”</p><p>Martín snorts. As if he wouldn’t follow Andrés to the end of the world — </p><p>Andrés makes a whistling sound and Aethon trots toward them, stopping just in-between where they both stand. Up close, the horse is even larger than Martín had thought. More intimidating. A giant mass of muscle and brute strength.</p><p>Andrés mounts the stallion with effortless grace, of course. And he looks like a prince of old, regal and striking. The kind that would walk past Martín without a second glance, even spit on him for daring to come so close to his presence.</p><p>But for some reason, this handsome prince bends down to offer Martín his hand. And when Martín graciously accepts, he pulls him up to sit on the saddle right behind him.</p><p>“Wrap your arms around me.” Andrés instructs, guiding Martín’s hands around his waist. “Right here. Don’t let go. And keep your feet on the stirrups so you don’t — ” Andrés suddenly laughs, and he smooths his hands over Martín’s to try and soothe him. “Mutt, relax. You’re shaking.”</p><p>“Your horse is very large and very strong.” Martín stammers, trying not to picture himself falling off and getting trampled on.</p><p>“He is indeed. But he’s very well trained, so you have nothing to worry about.”</p><p>Martín is just about to believe him when Aethon suddenly jerks in place, tossing its head side to side. Andrés laughs when Martín shrieks and plasters himself nearly flat against his back, fingers digging into skin. </p><p>“Hijo de puta.”</p><p>“Calm down.” Andrés says, tutting his lips. Martín thinks for a moment he’s talking to the fucking horse until he’s pulled by his hands and made to press his cheek against Andrés’s shoulder. The closest they’ve ever been since Martín cried in his arms. He feels himself blush.</p><p>“Hold on to me just like that. <em> Vale?” </em></p><p>When Andrés turns his head slightly to smile at him, Martín manages to nod. </p><p><em> “Vale. </em> I’m ready. And I already regret everything.”</p><p>Andrés laughs and starts by clicking his heels, signaling Aethon to move forward. The horse begins to do a fast trot, but Andrés wastes no time and picks up the pace. Soon they’re galloping through an open field with only the moonlight brightening up their path. The wind rushes past them, blowing their hair back, and Martín can feel the adrenaline pump through his veins. </p><p>“So this is your idea of a surprise?” Martín half yells through the loud galloping, trying not to enjoy the pleasure of having his arms wrapped around Andrés, of being able to hold him close. “A midnight horseback riding session? What’s next, a one night only rendition of Macbeth in a brothel?”</p><p>He feels rather than hears Andrés’s chuckle. The way it vibrates low in his chest, sending shivers down Martín’s spine as he presses his ear against the curve of Andrés’s back.</p><p>“Have I told you about your propensity for vulgarity, Mutt?” Andrés calls, steering Aethon away from the fallen trees blocking their path. “I take you out on a romantic escapade, and you reward me with lewd jokes and impatience.” He turns his head around and flashes a mischievous smile.</p><p>“Hold on tight.”</p><p>“Wait just a minute, <em> Andrés </em>— ”</p><p>Andrés clicks his heels against the horse’s side and snaps its reins with a quick flick of his wrist. Aethon neighs and suddenly rears, standing up on its hindlegs with its forelegs kicking wildly in the air. <em> Powerful, beautiful.  </em></p><p>Martín yelps as he’s forced to hold on to Andrés even more, squeezing around his torso as tightly as he can, not wanting to fall off. Andrés laughs gleefully at this right before Aethon charges forward into the night.</p><p><em> “Hijo de puta.” </em> Martín hisses through gritted teeth. He’s shaking so much, but he also can’t stop the smile that quickly spreads across his face. “<em>Fuck you, Andrés. </em>You are such a bastard.”</p><p>“Only for you, <em> querido.”</em></p><p>Martín rolls his eyes and nuzzles his cheek against Andrés’s back, smiling even more when he feels Andrés squeezing one of his tangled hands reassuringly.</p><p>“Just don’t let go of me.” Andrés murmurs, slowing Aethon down to a canter when they pass by a slightly more narrowed part of the trail. “I’ll take good care of you, Martín. I won’t let you fall.”</p><p><em> Way too fucking late for that, </em>Martín thinks, shutting his eyes with a sigh.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“Allow me.” Andrés says, slipping off the saddle with a flourish and holding his hand out for Martín to take. </p><p>“Fuck off.” Martín growls, smacking his hand away. Andrés only smirks as Martín dismounts clumsily, nearly falling flat on his ass. “See? I can manage by myself, <em> thanks.” </em></p><p>“I never once doubted you.”</p><p>Martín makes a face at him and brushes the dirt off his breeches. “All right, Andrés. For the thousandth fucking time tonight, <em> where the fuck are we?”  </em></p><p>“Honestly, Martín. Use your eyes and not your mouth to look for once.” Andrés says. “You just might manage to find something.”</p><p>Martín sticks a tongue out at him before he looks around and spots an old, seemingly abandoned watchtower. The stone that was used to form its walls had started to wear down over the years, but the structure managed to retain most of its shape. It looks study and resilient.</p><p>“Follow me.” Andrés says, patting his back. </p><p>They make their way up a flight of stairs until they reach the very top of the tower, and Andrés leads him into a room he has to unlock with a key.</p><p>“Close your eyes.” Andrés grins, but then fakes a pout when Martín scowls at him. “Oh be a sport and play along, will you Mutt?”</p><p>Martín grumbles but obediently covers his eyes with both hands, hearing the door unlock and allowing Andrés to guide him into the mysterious room with an arm around his waist.</p><p>“This better not be a fucking dungeon.” he mutters, trying not to shiver when he feels Andrés laugh. </p><p>“Please, I left the shackles at home, remember?” </p><p><em> Bastard. </em>“Vale.” Martín mumbles, thankful for the hands covering his blushing cheeks. </p><p>He’s not sure what exactly he expected Andrés to surprise him with, but the bastard does succeed in his task, because Martín would have never foreseen this. </p><p>The room is finely decorated, filled with tapestries and furniture that match the pieces Andrés had in his own room. Though it isn’t nearly as large as the one he had in the monastery, Andrés had managed to fit in a considerably large bed, a couch, two wooden easels, a telescope, and even an empty suit of armor with a matching sword and shield in its hands for decoration.</p><p>“My secret hiding spot.” he hears Andrés say, grinning proudly beside him. “I come here when I want some peace and quiet. Usually to escape my ex-wives when they got too unbearable. Which happened quite often, actually.”</p><p>“They don’t know about this place?”</p><p>Andrés shakes his head and leads Martín towards the window where the telescope is positioned, peeking out into the night sky. “It’s a secret hiding place, Mutt. No one knows about it, not even Sergio. It’s only just been me.” He sighs and flashes Martín a wide smile. “And now <em> you</em>.”</p><p>Andrés shows him the telescope — an expensive piece made out of bronze that he ordered specifically from abroad. He teaches Martín how to use it, twisting various knobs and scopes. Thankfully, Martín is a fast learner, and he quickly shoves Andrés away to finally have his turn. </p><p>He twists the telescope around with nothing particular in mind to look at. He stares at the distant mountains, at the rolling hills, at the small light that emanates from the nearby village, laughing when he sees drunken figures tripping and falling upon themselves as they make their way out of a pub.</p><p>“Idiots.” Martín snorts, turning the telescope elsewhere. This time he can see all the way over to the monastery, and past that, the flowing river that cut across the mountain side like a sharpened blade.</p><p>Andrés probably senses his giddy aimlessness, because he steps right behind Martín and cuts short his lollygagging. </p><p>“Here.” Andrés seems to whisper, laying his hand over Martín’s on top of the finderscope, clasping slightly as he ushers the telescope towards the opposite direction. The movement is slow and methodical, <em> achingly so. </em>And as the telescope twists around to now point towards the hillside nearing the west, Andrés lays his chin over the curve of Martín’s shoulder and presses their cheeks together. </p><p>“Take a look.”</p><p>Martín’s breath hitches at how <em> low </em>his voice sounds, how tantalizingly close Andrés is. He leans in towards the eyepiece, biting his lip to hold back a whine when Andrés suddenly pulls back, breaking the soothing contact of their cheeks. </p><p>But he is quickly appeased, though, as two hands make their way to his shoulders, squeezing gently as he looks through the scope. It almost makes him melt. </p><p>“It’s beautiful.”</p><p>It isn’t difficult to pinpoint what Andrés wants him to see. He had positioned the telescope carefully, and Martín instantly identifies the bright cluster of stars that form the image of a creature in the sky. </p><p>“That’s Lupus.” he hears Andrés say. “The wolf constellation.”</p><p>Martín nods. He’s seen the constellation before as illustrations in books and in magazines. But he never thought to really look at the real thing, even though he spent many nights outside. He doesn’t know why.</p><p>“It’s beautiful.” Martín says again. </p><p>“It’s you, <em> perrito.”  </em></p><p>
  <em> Perrito... </em>
</p><p>He grins and pulls away from the telescope, hoping the cover of darkness was enough to mask the redness in his cheeks. But he accidentally bumps into Andrés when he takes a step back, and both of them laugh softly when Martín twists around, mumbling out an apology.</p><p>“Perrito, huh? That’s new.”</p><p>“You don’t like it?”</p><p>Martín bites his lip and gazes up at him. “I like every name you give me, Andrés.”</p><p>It occurs to him then just how close they both are. The room is large enough to fit a banquet for kings, yet the two of them remain pressed up against each other, as if they had been squeezed into a tiny hole and are unable to move, with no other choice but to hold each other close. </p><p>“What about my surprise?” Andrés asks, dragging a hand to curl at the back of Martín’s neck. “Do you like that too?”</p><p>Martín lets out a silent gasp when Andrés slides his fingers up into his hair, scratching at his scalp. </p><p>“Everything about you, I like.” he sighs, and Andrés chuckles, the sound of it like music to Martín’s ears.</p><p>That feeling starts to bubble up again. Stronger than it ever had been before. Martín feels it in the rapid thrumming of his heart, in the way his breath starts to hitch, and how his hands ache to reach, to <em> touch.  </em></p><p>He’s known lust and desire before, but this is different. <em>Andrés is different.</em> This feeling eclipses anything else he’s ever felt before in his life, and it rises inside him like floodwater, washing away everything else, until there’s nothing left for him to do but drown.</p><p>He reaches for Andrés’s face, cupping it gently but also pulling it towards his own. He’s never held Andrés like this, never imagined he actually could — </p><p>
  <em> “Martín.” </em>
</p><p>Andrés is watching him, eyebrows raised, almost as if he’s waiting. Suddenly, Martín doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know what comes next. Here he is, holding Andrés’s face in his hands, staring at his eyes, their mouths wet and glistening, yet he doesn’t know what to do until he finally does it.</p><p>He leans forward and their mouths meet, softly at first —  and then much harder. <em> Hungrier. </em> Martín surges forward and crushes their lips together greedily. There is heat, and there is tenderness, and oh, the sweetness of that mouth. <em> Indescribable. </em> Like all the fruits in all the world coming together to form a taste that Martín can only describe as <em> distinctly Andrés </em>. He can’t stop himself from sucking and licking on those lips, never satisfied, always craving for more.</p><p><em> “More.” </em>he groans, like he did in all those dreams. “Please, more.”</p><p>Pleasure spreads through his skin quickly, and he moans when Andrés starts to kiss him back, seizing Martín into his arms to be devoured. Once he starts, Martín is helpless, completely pliant to his whims. It’s clear that Andrés is the one who leads, the one who decides who gets to take and who gets to give. And judging by the way he’s immobilized Martín in a crushing embrace, Andrés has no intention whatsoever to leave any piece of Martín untouched.</p><p>Eagerly, he slips his tongue over Martín’s mouth, coaxing it open with various licks and swirls, and when Martín readily complies, Andrés drags him up against the nearest wall and practically rams his tongue down Martín’s throat.</p><p>“Mmph. Andrés. Can I —”</p><p>Andrés only silences him with another kiss, more heated than the last. His hands find their way beneath Martín’s shirt, and they eagerly roam and squeeze at every inch of skin they could reach, searching for heat.</p><p>“Andrés —” </p><p>“Quiet.”</p><p>The hoarseness of Andrés’s voice makes him moan again, and he allows himself to be handled, to be touched and kissed and tasted. When Andrés starts kissing his neck, Martín bucks his hips forward, unable to restrain himself when he feels those fangs grazing against sensitive skin.</p><p>“Hm, you like that, do you?”</p><p>Martín groans, leaning forward to capture Andrés’s mouth and kissing him just as rough. He drags his tongue beneath the sharpened tips of his fangs, licking up to feel them nearly poking through skin before Andrés shoves him back up against the wall.</p><p>“My, you’re such a naughty little thing, aren’t you?" Andrés says with a wicked grin.</p><p>Martín tries to reach for him again, emboldened by desire, but Andrés holds him still with a grip to his throat.</p><p>“Bite me.” Martín whines, squirming in place. “Or fuck me. Or let me take you into my mouth. Or all of the above.”</p><p>Andrés laughs, but something about his expression darkens. His features are suddenly coated with lust and desire. <em> With hunger</em>. He dives right back into Martín’s mouth, and the two of them practically collide, clawing at each other’s backs, grunting and moaning like animals. Teeth against teeth, mouths open and seeking. The passion is there, certainly, but something else is too. A thing which they still cannot name, showing itself through the intervals of gentle pecks to their cheeks, soft caresses on bare skin, and whispered sighs of unfathomable pleasure.  It’s a strange rhythm they have, somewhere between torment and tenderness, passion and pain — but it works for them.</p><p>“We can try all of the above.” Andrés whispers, voice low and seductive. It sends jolts of pleasure all over Martín’s body, especially in places he needs them the most, making him groan and thrust his hips.</p><p>
  <em>"Please."</em>
</p><p>Andrés chuckles and starts unbuttoning Martín’s shirt, languidly at first, kissing down Martín’s neck and sucking at the skin, until impatience gets the best of him and he rips the whole thing off with one quick swipe.</p><p>Before Martín could complain that it was his favorite shirt, Andrés kisses him again, slow and messy, with more tongue than mouth. They groan simultaneously as they tumble eagerly into bed, wasting no time peeling each other’s clothes off.</p><p>“Tamquam alter diem?” Martín exhales, moaning when Andrés bites playfully on his neck, leaving the reddened dots of his fang marks right next to the hickeys and bruises.</p><p>“Tamquam alter diem.” Andrés agrees, smiling as he leans in for a kiss. “We chose each other, <em> perrito.” </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i have once again updated at 3 AM and i have no excuses</p><p>Pyrios and Aethon are names of Apollo's horses in Greek myth - that was Shotgun's idea thanks luv</p><p>also enjoy my half-baked chicken Shotgun ily!!!</p><p>leave a kudo or yell at me in the comments that's very valid</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. this side of paradise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i'm so dumb, i thought i published this before the holidays but it turns out I DIDN'T HAHAHA. oops. i need sleep.</p><p>this chapter is just porn, hence the changing of the rating to explicit.... pls look away.<br/>oh, don't worry there's no plot in the porn so you can totally skip it no problem</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Something must have happened to him in-between yesterday and today. Something profound. <em> Inconceivable. </em> Perhaps he had died without knowing it. Blood loss from the Turning, someone killing him while he was still in the beast’s form — or perhaps Sergio finally had enough of him and managed to suffocate him while he slept.</p><p>Because there’s no way in <em> hell </em>he’s this lucky.</p><p>Andrés has his tongue shoved down Martín’s throat, and they’ve been kissing in bed for probably half an hour now — hungrily devouring each other’s faces, grinding their hips together like a pair of lustful adolescents. </p><p>Their clothes have long since been discarded, with the exception of their undergarments and Andrés’s dress shirt, which he’s still wearing partially buttoned up, much to Martín’s frustration. He tugs on the sleeves like a petulant child, but Andrés only grins wickedly at him before leaning down and kissing him some more.</p><p>
  <em> Bastard.  </em>
</p><p>Martín’s clothes, on the other hand, lie in tatters by the foot of the bed. Andrés had torn through them with greedy and impatient hands. Grabbing. Pulling. Clawing the pieces off of Martín’s body like some rabid animal. </p><p>When they both tumbled into bed, Andrés had wasted no time to do the exact same thing with the rest of Martín’s clothing. The sound of fabric tearing apart mingled well with their pleasured grunts, and Martín had bucked his hips up desperately, certain he’s going to associate the sound with the way Andrés’s eyes had darkened with lust at the sight of him naked. </p><p>It seemed completely unreal. Like a dream.</p><p>
  <em> He wants me.  </em>
</p><p>Martín had almost laughed at the absurdity of such a realization. But then Andrés had lunged towards him, prying his mouth open with his tongue, slipping it in to deepen their kiss. Martín had moaned in encouragement, and Andrés took this as a cue to push further, to suck harder until their lips turned red and swollen and sore. </p><p>Once their lips touched, it was hard to let go. And they haven’t stopped kissing since.</p><p>“I really liked that shirt.” Martín groans into Andrés’s mouth, grumbling when he feels the hot breath of laughter against his cheeks. “Andrés, I mean it. That shirt was one of my best ones. Pricey. Comfortable. Soft —”</p><p>Andrés grasps him by his chin, maneuvering his face for a filthy kiss that sends any semblance of rational thought flying right out of Martín’s head. </p><p>
  <em> Fuck.  </em>
</p><p>He instinctively opens his mouth wider, allowing Andrés to circle his tongue inside, to crush their swollen lips into juice. He winds his arms around Andrés’s neck, hanging on as much as he can until Andrés pulls away with a moisty smack of his mouth.</p><p>“I think you can live without it.” Andrés grunts, bumping their noses together before he moves down and starts sucking on the skin of Martín’s neck. He drags his tongue all the way up to Martín’s jaw, making the latter groan. “In fact, if I had my way, you’d be naked all the time, right here in this bed.” He chuckles when Martín makes some kind of agonized mewling sound, thrusting his hips up, searching for friction. “Oh, you like that, do you?”</p><p>Martín nods furiously, too overwhelmed with desire to speak, but gasping when their mouths press together once more. </p><p>Andrés kisses him like he’s a man dying of thirst and Martín’s mouth is the first puddle of water he’s found for miles. It’s hot and messy and it renders Martín completely boneless beneath him, like a rag doll Andrés could move and toss in whatever way he pleased. </p><p>And Martín lets him, managing only little delirious grunts that serve to spur Andrés on. He eagerly flips Martín over to lay on his stomach, peppering kisses down the path of his spine, sometimes sucking, other times biting. </p><p>But he stops when he reaches the hollow of Martín’s back, and opts instead to plant a lingering, gentle kiss there right before he pulls away. </p><p>
  <em>"Andrés."</em>
</p><p>There is a split second where Martín isn’t being touched, and he whimpers miserably into the pillows, aching for Andrés to hold him again, to <em> use him, </em> like the greedy monster that he is. Always wanting more.</p><p>And his cock is already rock hard and leaking, pressing up against the bed, so desperate for release. But he makes a valiant effort not to rut himself against the mattress. After all, he should be enjoying this. A possible once in a lifetime opportunity for him. Therefore, he ought to try and make it last for as long as possible.</p><p>But Andrés’s touches make it increasingly more difficult for him to contain himself, and if they keep going on like this, Martín is sure he’s going to come just from feeling Andrés’s skin on his own.</p><p>Suddenly, he feels the touch of fingers toying with the hem of his underwear, slipping between where the fabric meets skin. He pauses for a moment, and then sighs when Andrés slowly slides it off him, gradually revealing the firm curve of his ass. </p><p>When Andrés grabs one of the cheeks to crush in his hand, they both groan together.</p><p>“You’re an absolute vision, Martín.” Andrés says, his voice raspy with desire. Nearly breaking as he said Martín's name. “So <em> eager. </em> So loyal and so good. And all mine to enjoy, too. How lucky.”</p><p>It makes Martín dizzy with need to hear Andrés sound like that, to know that he wants Martín just as much as Martín wants him. <em> All his to enjoy. </em> Martín moans, his mind racing with all the possible things Andrés could do to him — all the things Martín will be <em> begging </em>him to do.  </p><p>He shuts his eyes and imagines Andrés pinning him down by his wrists. Fucking him hard and fast into oblivion.</p><p>He keens to the thought, and he quickly shifts his knees forward to push his ass up into the air, swaying his hips as provocatively as he can. An invitation. An offering. </p><p>A <em> plea.  </em></p><p>“My, my aren’t you a delightful little thing?” he hears Andrés chuckle. There are two hands on his ass then, gliding over the cheeks soothingly, almost <em>l</em><em>ovingly. </em> Like Andrés is handling some precious sculpture in a museum, fragile to the slightest touch. </p><p>It’s a wonderfully tender feeling, and Martín is sure that if it were at any other time, and at any other place, he would have welcomed it, been <em> thankful </em> for it — <em> but... right now?  </em></p><p>Right now it’s definitely the last fucking thing he needs. </p><p><em> “Andrés.” </em> Martín whines, impatient. He grits his teeth together as he speaks. “Just <em> fuck </em>me already.”</p><p>Andrés laughs at him. He sounds more amused than anything, but his hands on Martín’s ass become rougher in their movements. Suddenly pushing and squeezing. Martín tries to roll his hips, but Andrés holds him firmly in place, fingers now digging deep into tender skin.</p><p>“Oh fuck, <em> Andrés.”  </em></p><p>“I want to savour you.” Andrés murmurs, easing Martín back down, caressing the muscles of his back. “Don’t be so impatient, perrito. We’ll have plenty of time for that later, as I do intend to fuck you tonight.” He laughs when Martín squirms beneath him, panting at the thought of Andrés slamming his cock into his ass. “But first things first, Mutt. I do believe you offered me something once before —”</p><p>Martín barely has enough time to muse about what Andrés meant by that before he’s roughly flipped over again, and he’s lying on his back once more. </p><p>This time, however, Andrés’s crotch is inches away from his face, hovering, nearly touching the edge of his lips. Martín freezes and takes a deep breath, unwilling to look away, or to even stop himself from licking his lips lavisciously, as though he were about to be fed a delicious meal.</p><p>If he still had any doubts as to whether or not Andrés wanted him the same way, the ridiculous bulge between his legs, only faintly concealed by his undergarments, certainly crushed all those fears into nothingness. </p><p>He swallows and Andrés grins down at him.</p><p>“Do you like what you see?”</p><p>Martín can only stare, half in awe and half disbelieving. </p><p>
  <em> That’s Andrés’s cock he’s looking at.  </em>
</p><p>He can easily make out the redness of Andrés’s throbbing erection beneath the thin cotton of his underwear, which he realizes with a jolt, is already slightly wet with precome — just from their kissing and touching alone. </p><p>Martín groans to that, and a loud, needy whine escapes him as he lets his mouth fall open about the same time he shuts his eyes, already so prepared — <em> so fucking ready,</em> in fact, to take the entirety of Andrés’s length deep into his mouth and down his throat.</p><p>“Oh you are so obscene, Mutt. <em> Look at you.”  </em></p><p>Martín doesn’t have to look. He knows that he appears on the outside exactly how he feels on the inside. That is, completely aroused and utterly shameless, his swollen mouth gaping open, his chest heaving up and down, panting in anticipation. </p><p>When Andrés presses closer, Martín props himself up onto his elbows and starts to plant open-mouthed kisses over the  bulge of Andrés’s underwear, even trying to take a bit of it into his mouth, fabric and all. It's a terribly indecent display, but the satisfied noise Andrés makes is more than enough to keep him going.</p><p>He subsequently feels Andrés sliding a hand into his hair, gently massaging the scalp at first, sort of grounding him. He makes tiny pleasured gasps when Andrés tugs on the strands, not enough to hurt yet — though Martín wants nothing more than for Andrés to manhandle him, to take the pleasure that is offered willingly — but enough to make his dick twitch approvingly as he continues his movements.</p><p>Then Andrés suddenly grabs onto a fistful of his hair, jerking Martín’s head back roughly and forcing their eyes to meet. </p><p>Martín groans and he manages a filthy smile. Andrés looks as stoic and as powerful as he always does, like an Olympian god who could create and destroy universes with a flick of his hand. </p><p>But his eyes betray in them a hunger that seems entirely human.</p><p>“Do you wish to suck it, Mutt?” Andrés grunts, dragging Martín by his hair, making him press his cheek over his bulge again. </p><p>Martín can feel the heat of Andrés’s cock through the fabric as he nuzzles his face against it, nodding fervently and humming in assent.</p><p><em> “Please.” </em>he gasps, moaning when Andrés thrusts his hips forward, pressing his crotch more firmly on Martín’s reddened cheeks. “Please, Andrés. Let me take you into my mouth. I need — I need —”</p><p>He nearly screams with joy when Andrés pushes him flat on the bed and holds him down by his shoulders, keeping him nice and still. Martín squirms for good measure, though, just to see Andrés groan in barely contained lust, staring down at him like a hunter that had cornered its prey.</p><p>Something clicks in Martín’s head then. He realizes he can overpower Andrés if he so wanted to. If this were a fight, he could push Andrés backwards into the bed and keep <em> him </em>in place. Unable to escape his grasp.</p><p>Vampires are known for their agility, their inhuman speed — but werewolves are stronger. More resilient. Yet Andrés is able to control Martín, to make him move and thrust and <em> beg, </em> not because he’s necessarily the stronger of the two —  but because Martín <em> lets </em> him do it. Martín <em> wants </em>him to do it.</p><p>He willingly gives up that power — <em> offers it, </em>the same way people used to gift sacrifices to the gods, hoping for a greater blessing in return.</p><p>They lock eyes briefly, wide-eyed and gasping, as though they had simultaneously come to the same realization. </p><p>And before Martín can say anything, Andrés bends down for a heated kiss, all sloppy and passionate, both of them making sounds so indecent, with their sucking mouths and pleasurable grunts, it’s probably enough to make a nun combust on the spot.</p><p>Then Andrés stops kissing him, and the soft, warm mouth is replaced by the hot, hardened tip of his cock. Bare this time, with no fabric barrier between them. Martín can almost sob.</p><p>He quickly tries to reach for it, to wrap his hand around the base, perhaps stroke it a few times before he swallows it down. But Andrés swats his hand away with a delighted grunt.</p><p>“Patience, Mutt. Don’t be so greedy now.” he says with a breathy laugh. One hand is caressing Martín’s face gently, as though soothing him. “I told you I plan on savoring you tonight. You can beg all you want, but I’ve made up my mind. Now be a good boy and open your mouth nice and wide for me.”</p><p>Martín quickly complies, opening his mouth with a desperate sigh. He sees Andrés smile at him, seemingly astounded by Martín’s willingness to obey, to submit to his whims. Like it wasn’t already so obvious.</p><p>And when Andrés slides further up on the bed, aligning his crotch over Martín’s gaping mouth, Martín grips tightly onto the bed sheets and closes his eyes, already so eager and ready. </p><p>Immediately, he feels Andrés rubbing the head of his cock all over his throbbing lips, making slow, circular motions around his mouth. Teasing him, giving him a taste, but frustratingly not pushing in.</p><p>He grunts, trying not to thrust his tongue out, to lick or to move without Andrés’s instructions. Instead, he lies there on his back, fists balled up into the sheets, allowing Andrés to use him in every way he sees fit. It’s glorious and maddening all at the same time.</p><p>Soon after, the sensation over his mouth disappears, and he waits, using the momentary respite to try and steady his rapid breathing. There are some movements on the bed, as he can sense the way the mattress dips in areas where Andrés shifts his body weight onto, pulling tension on the bed linens.</p><p>But he keeps his eyes firmly shut and his mouth open as wide as possible, knowing his obedience will be greatly rewarded.</p><p>And it is.</p><p>Martín groans loudly when Andrés starts easing his cock into his open mouth, slow and sensual. Like he wants Martín to feel every inch of him, to see how perfectly Andrés can fill him. So hot and so <em>tight. </em></p><p>Pleasure quickly swarms through his body like wildfire, intense and <em> burning, </em>with the heat coming in pulsing waves. Almost like a fever had overcome him, enough to make him shiver and moan.</p><p>He had expected Andrés to shove the whole thing in. To ram his dick hard into Martín’s mouth, far enough to reach the back of his throat and make him gag.</p><p>He fucking wants that so bad.</p><p>But Andrés stops pushing in, staying still when he’s not even halfway through yet, and Martín only has the tip of his cock pressing against his tongue. </p><p>His eyes flutter open then, appalled by the sudden turn of events, by Andrés withholding his marvelous dick from him, preventing Martín from sucking it the way it deserves. <em> It’s an outrage! </em></p><p>So Martín whines, of course. Even going so far as to tug on Andrés’s shirt, hoping his frustrated glare is enough to goad Andrés into fucking his mouth. <em> I want it, can’t you see?  </em></p><p>But Andrés only laughs at him again, sending pleasant vibrations down to his cock that makes Martín hum.</p><p>“Again with the impatience, perrito.” Andrés says, clicking his tongue and rolling his hips forward, so slight Martín barely feels it. “Perhaps I should just let you suck my cock. Or fuck your mouth until I come. Does that sound nice to you, hm?”</p><p>Martín exhales forcefully through his nose, nodding his head as eagerly as one can with a penis in their mouth. </p><p>
  <em> Yes indeed, Andrés. That sounds absolutely wonderful. We should get to it right away.  </em>
</p><p>Andrés chuckles then, low and mischievous. He bucks his hips forward and Martín grunts, shutting his eyes and waiting for more thrusts. </p><p>But treacherously, nothing follows. And Andrés is once again as still as a statue, grinning at Martín like the bastard that he is, fangs and all.</p><p>In return, Martín narrows his eyes at him and grunts disapprovingly. </p><p>“I could have my way with you.” Andrés murmurs, finally slipping his cock further inside, prompting Martín to moan happily. “I could take all the pleasure I want right now and be done with it.” He pulls out slowly and slides back in, his pace much too languid for Martín’s liking that it’s close to driving him mad. </p><p>“But if I do that, cariño, I’ll be <em> much </em> too spent to do anything else I had planned for you tonight.” He laughs devilishly when Martín gawks at him, obviously trying to wrap his head around the idea that <em> Andrés has plans for him tonight, sexual plans, </em>apparently. And he moans against the cock in his mouth just thinking about it. </p><p>“Do you want me to fuck you or not?”</p><p>Andrés pulls his dick out and Martín gasps, managing to scowl at him before he speaks. </p><p>“You — you <em> promised </em>me all of the above, you bastard.” </p><p>Andrés laughs and repositions his cock back over Martín’s lips. “You’re absolutely right, Mutt. I did.” </p><p>He grabs Martín by his hair, and Martín looks up at him expectantly, waiting for his command, his <em> permission. </em>But Andrés merely tilts his head to one side, mouth twisting into one of his signature crooked smiles, stroking the bottom of Martín’s chin with his free hand while tutting his lips in mock condescension. </p><p>It immediately registers to Martín what Andrés wants from him. </p><p><em> “Please.” </em> he begs, not missing a beat. He starts squirming in place, keeping his eyes on Andrés’s delicious cock that’s mere inches away from his face, while Andrés grunts at the sight of him. “Please Andrés, let me suck it. Let me take it. You can fuck my mouth, you can do anything, please, please just let me —”</p><p>His begging is cut short when Andrés quickly moves down to kiss him, and they both groan into each other’s mouths. </p><p>Martín thinks:<em> Andrés, your dick has been in my mouth. </em> </p><p>But the vampire doesn’t seem to mind, as he keeps on kissing him, hungry and deep and wild. He finally takes off his shirt too, practically tearing it off his body and chucking it carelessly into the dark. </p><p>Andrés seizes him again, pulling Martín flush against his chest and continues devouring him some more.</p><p>Martín can only moan, surprised by that sudden touch of skin, slippery with sweat and hot with mutual lust. Their hands trail over each other's bodies, squeezing at tightened muscles, desperate to keep touching, <em>yearning —</em></p><p>He lets Andrés tug and suck at his lips, lets him scratch and bite at skin, giving himself up completely until Andrés abruptly flips them over on the bed, and Martín finds himself laying across Andrés’s chest. </p><p>There’s a few seconds of pause where Martín has to get his bearings. And once he does, he can’t help himself when he starts kissing Andrés’s body, leaving chaste little pecks, starting from his neck down to the curve of his belly. Each kiss he gives is tender, careful. Almost a form of reverence for him. <em> Worship. </em> The way one would kiss a holy relic. </p><p>And Andrés seems to enjoy it too, as he sighs with each press of Martín’s lips, moaning where his mouth lingered for too long. </p><p>Martín loves it, the way his touches can draw out of Andrés the same sounds he thought he would only ever hear coming from adjacent rooms. Never in his life did he think it would come to this.</p><p>He keeps peppering kisses across Andrés’s chest, determined to touch every inch of skin at least once.</p><p>But Andrés seems to have other plans in mind, as he pushes Martín back by his shoulders, easing him further down on the bed, lower and lower, until he’s face-to-face with Andrés’s hard, leaking cock.</p><p>Martín exhales sharply.</p><p>“All right then, let me see those unparalleled fellatio skills you’re so proud of.” Andrés chuckles, his voice teasing but slightly hoarse. “Go on, Mutt. <em> Show me. </em>And don’t you dare hold back.”</p><p>Martín doesn’t need to be told twice. </p><p>As soon as Andrés finishes his sentence, Martín quickly starts mouthing all over the length of his dick, pressing open mouthed kisses down the base, trailing all the way up to the tip. Eager to taste, to touch. </p><p>He gasps when he feels Andrés’s fingers digging through his hair, equally rough and encouraging, tugging on the strands when Martín does something particularly good. </p><p>“Oh yes, that’s it perrito. <em> Yes.</em> Such a good boy. So lovely, <em>mi querido</em>.”</p><p>Martín hears Andrés groan when he grabs the base of his cock and flicks his tongue over the head, tasting the saltiness of his precome. He moves like that a few times, slowly stroking down the shaft and flicking his tongue some more, before he eagerly wraps his mouth around the tip and swirls his tongue around it, sucking and coating it generously with his spit.</p><p>Andrés gasps then, his voice teetering off the edge of pleasure. Erotic and deep. <em>And Christ</em>, if it isn't such a luscious sound. Martín moans as he continues his motions, determined to lure it out of him again.</p><p>He starts taking more of Andrés into his mouth. Gradually at first, but moving deeper each time, humming at the delightful weight his dick has against his tongue, relishing in the heat and wetness.</p><p>He likes how Andres's cock is just the right width and length to fit smoothly into his mouth. It slips in-and-out of his swollen lips with ease, pushing them apart nicely, yet with precisely enough pressure and tightness to feel wholly pleasurable.</p><p>“You’re certainly doing well so far, Mutt.” Andrés laughs, grinning though his voice is tinged with lust. “I’m impressed.” </p><p>Martín looks up at Andrés with hooded eyes, glazed over by desire. He holds his gaze steady when he starts sucking and bobbing his head, beginning with slow, measured gestures, but increasing in speed each time Andrés makes any sort of pleasured sound, matching it with stifled sobs of his own.</p><p>He drinks in the image of Andrés staring back at him with the same rapturous expression on his face, pupils blown with intense need, jaw clenched tightly. It’s enough to propel him to move faster, to suck even harder — hungrier, to try and make that handsome face twist into one of complete rapture.</p><p>He gets off knowing that Andrés is taking pleasure from him. That he's being used and enjoyed like this. A vessel for gratification, Andrés's gratification. It's an honor —<em>a privilege</em> — for Martín to be able to serve him this way.</p><p>As he keeps moving though, Martín feels the way his own cock throbs helplessly into open air, aching for some form of friction. For <em>release. </em>Yet he wills himself to ignore it, focusing instead on giving Andrés maximal pleasure. </p><p>He pushes his tongue up to lap at the shaft of Andrés’s cock, hollowing his cheeks with just the right amount of pressure, bobbing his head up and down while his hands quicken their strokes, moaning as he picks up the pace. </p><p>When Andrés suddenly grabs his face and starts pumping into his mouth, Martín relaxes his throat and takes each thrust masterfully with muffled, thankful grunts. Again and again and again, despite the rough and almost erratic movements — until Andrés tires and he settles back into bed with a self-satisfied, mocking grin on his face.</p><p>“Oh, you took that well, Mutt.” the bastard says cheekily, curling his fingers into Martín's hair. “Perhaps I underestimated your abilities.”</p><p>But that smug smile doesn't last. It's quickly wiped off his face and replaced by darkened, unexpected bliss that looks worthy of a museum display when Martín suddenly swallows him down, all the way up to his balls. </p><p>Andrés groans beautifully and arches his back up, his mouth forming a giant “O” shape. He looks down at Martín and hisses, clearly not expecting the gesture, but loving it all the same.</p><p>“Naughty dog.” Andrés gasps, voice broken by pleasure, shaking his head in disbelief. “You indecent, lovely little thing. Oh. So good to me, my perrito. <em>My Martín.”</em></p><p>Martín only gives Andrés a look, then, but waits for no further instruction.</p><p>Instead, he draws his mouth back up, all the way up to the tip, before plunging back in as deep as before, moaning and grunting around Andrés’s cock as Andrés himself groans and throws his head back in sheer pleasure. </p><p>
  <em>"Dios mio, Martín."</em>
</p><p>Martín starts sucking cock in earnest, then. Repeatedly swallowing Andrés down, faster and harder each time, not caring about the kind of desperate, pathetic sounds he’s making, or the spit dribbling messily down his chin. </p><p>All he cares about is Andrés’s pleasure, his desire, his ecstatic moans that echo in the dark each time Martín so much as takes a slurp of his cock.</p><p>And Martín knows he can give him all that and more. <em>So much more. </em>Andrés deserves nothing less. </p><p>He understands then, that every cock he’s ever taken was just practice —<em> rehearsal </em> — preparing him for this very moment. This performance. </p><p>
  <em> His obra maestra.  </em>
</p><p>He can tell Andrés loves it because the hands in his hair are relentless, grabbing and pulling, maneuvering his face and angling each plunge when Andrés starts ruthlessly fucking his throat again.</p><p>It feels like they’re both so close to the edge now. As though one more deep thrust and swallow is all it would take for Andrés to come into his mouth. </p><p>And Martín wants that. More than anything. He fucking craves it, so fucking bad, to drink up every last drop of Andrés’s cum, even lick the spillage off his lips. Savor it like a treat. </p><p>And then Andrés would see just how wanton and devoted he is. <em>Willing to serve. To please. </em>And he would understand too, how Martín would just let him fuck his mouth whenever he wants. That all he ever needs to do is ask, and Martín would <em> kneel </em> each time, with no hesitation <em>— </em></p><p>Just thinking about it makes him move even more desperately, the sounds coming out of his throat guttural and filthy. He can sense the orgasm coming by the way Andes’s dick twitches in his mouth, and he braces himself for the pulsing heat to fill him, to push into his throat. And Martín slowly swallows him down further to help hasten his release <em> — </em></p><p>But Andrés pulls him off his dick and <em> stops him. </em></p><p>Martín could scream. He almost does, thrashing on the bed and kicking his legs up like some spoiled brat. </p><p>
  <em> “Andrés.” </em>
</p><p>“Lie back down. On the bed. <em> Now.” </em></p><p>Martín shudders at the gruffness of Andrés’s voice. At how hungry and close to breaking he sounds. </p><p>It’s enough to make Martín scramble back to the top of the bed and lie flat on his back, almost breathless now, and <em> aching, </em>his cock throbbing so hard it fucking hurts. </p><p>Andrés disappears for a moment then, a gust of wind in the dark, and he comes back not a second later, holding a bowl of clear white liquid in his hands. </p><p>He sets it aside on the nightstand, but not before lathering his fingers generously with them, the squelching sound reminding Martín of what his cock sounded like pushing in and out of his lips. Dirty and delicious.</p><p>“What is that?” Martín asks, his voice raspy and out of breath. He can still feel the sensation of Andrés’s cock down his throat, and he swallows around the feeling, pretending as though Andrés was still fucking his mouth. </p><p>“Coconut oil.” Andrés says simply, rubbing the stuff around his fingers. “I use it to keep my paints wet. Stop them from drying too quickly. I’m sure it will be good for you too.” </p><p>Andrés flashes him a devilish smirk and reaches over to spread Martín’s legs open, forcing a whine out of him the minute he starts rubbing circles around the outside of Martín’s hole.</p><p>“Relax.” Andrés whispers, one hand caressing the back of Martín’s thigh, comforting him as he probes a finger inside, not nearly deep enough yet, but Martín hisses all the same, like he’d been breached thoroughly. </p><p>“Oh, fuck!”</p><p>“Did that hurt?”</p><p>“No!” Martín grunts, squirming and biting his mouth. “No. No, it — it’s <em> good. </em> Fuck. Please, keep — keep going.”</p><p>Andrés huffs in amusement, easing in deeper this time, circling around the tense muscles and allowing them to relax to the intrusion. He lets out a surprised, delighted gasp when Martín clenches around his finger, moaning and twitching with need, his breaths coming in silent, husky gasps.</p><p>“Oh dear, so eager now, are we?” Andrés laughs, seemingly thrilled at how easily Martín’s body opens up to his explorations, like it was made to be probed and touched.</p><p>Soon, he can slip two fingers in with barely any resistance, and Martín snaps his hips forward, moaning obscenely when Andrés curls his fingers and finds his prostate.</p><p>“Andrés, <em> fuck</em>.”</p><p>Andrés seems fascinated by Martín’s reaction. At how vocal and shameless he’s being. His eyes grow wide in amazement, and he repeats his movements, massaging Martín’s prostate, sometimes moving in circular motions, again and again, until Martín has tears welling up in his eyes, and he’s whimpering and clawing at the sheets, delirious with arousal.</p><p>“You — you’ve done this before.” Martín accuses, his voice airy and broken. No more menacing than a whimper. </p><p>“Not with a man, no.” Andrés confesses, now sliding three fingers in, making Martín squirm and sob. “No werewolves either, as far as I know.” </p><p>He could have had some sort of smart-ass response to that, he’s certain of it. But Andrés starts fucking him with his fingers, thrusting in and out at a surprisingly punishing pace, and whatever remark Martín concocted inside his head turns itself into a moan the second it leaves his mouth.</p><p>
  <em> “Andrés!” </em>
</p><p>“How dare you underestimate me, Martín. I know I’m no connoisseur at homosexual sex, but I am six hundred years old, you know. Not some blubbering, virginal schoolboy.”</p><p>Martín nods senselessly, agreeing to whatever the hell Andrés wants, much too dizzy with pleasure to think straight. The fingers in his ass are ceaseless, and if Andrés keeps going like this, Martín is worried he’s going to come without having Andrés fuck him with his dick. </p><p>It’s totally unacceptable.</p><p>He trembles when he reaches for Andrés, smacking his thighs weakly, trying to get his attention. When Andrés looks up long enough to meet his gaze, Martín manages to breathe out his request.</p><p>“Fuck me, Andrés. I’m <em> ready.”</em></p><p>Andrés raises an eyebrow at him. He slides his fingers out gently, but Martín still whimpers, feeling hollow and aching all of the sudden. Wanting to be filled.</p><p>There’s a brief moment of stillness then, and they gaze at each other silently, well aware of how they look absolutely sinful. <em> Depraved.  </em></p><p>Martín opens his mouth to speak, but Andrés is lying on top of him in an instant, kissing and sucking at the skin of his jaw, shuddering when Martín moves to kiss him back. </p><p>Martín realizes he’s trembling. They <em> both are. </em>And it quickly dawns on him then that they are both inexperienced, though they’ve had many lovers between them. </p><p>Andrés had never been with a man before, and Martín has never been with a man like Andrés.</p><p>It’s both new and frightening territory for the both of them, and Martín wouldn’t hold it against him if Andrés wanted to stop it now. He would be crushed, certainly, but he would understand —</p><p>“Tell me how you want it.” Andrés murmurs, grazing his teeth against Martín’s neck, making him whine. </p><p>He takes Martín’s hands and holds them down on either side of his head, lacing their fingers together as he pushes him down into the mattress, immobilizing him, keeping him in place. </p><p>Then he nuzzles their faces together and Martín sobs.</p><p>
  <em> “Andrés.” </em>
</p><p>“How do you want me to fuck you, perrito?”</p><p>Martín's eyes are wide when he swallows and gasps, feeling hot tears burning his eyes.</p><p><em> “Hard.” </em> he moans, whimpering as he grinds his crotch against Andrés’s leg. Desperate now. Fucking begging. “<em>Hard, please</em> <em>Andrés.</em> I want it hard, and <em> rough, </em> please, <em> just take me,</em> I want you to take me, hold me down, use me, fuck me <em> hard </em> and <em>oh</em> — <em> Oh fuck!” </em></p><p>Andrés slams his cock inside him. <em> All of it. </em>Up to his balls. In one smooth thrust. And Martín feels absolutely wrecked and debauched, overflowing with desperate need. </p><p>He instantly feels the way his body stretches around Andrés’s cock, how it fills him so deeply and so perfectly. When Andrés so much as shifts, Martín can feel it, and the pleasure builds and spreads over and under his skin as quick as lightning, making him moan and throw his head back in unadulterated passion. </p><p>“Martín.” Andrés grunts, pulling back out and plunging right back in, slow and deep, making Martín take the whole length of his cock.</p><p>He keeps at it like that, moaning softly as he jabs his hips forward, gradually speeding up his thrusts, hissing when Martín clenches himself around him, seemingly savoring the sudden tightness. The <em>heat. </em></p><p>But when Martín moans and moves his ass up against his dick, aching and weeping for more, Andrés growls and squeezes him down into the bed, nostrils flaring, eyes burning with frenzied lust.</p><p>“You truly are a greedy little thing.” He snarls, snapping his hips forward, rough enough to make Martín yelp. “But I do keep my promises, cariño. And I <em>will </em>fuck you sore."</p><p>Andrés starts ramming his cock in and out of Martín then, fucking him fast and hard, pinning him down by his hands. Not giving him a chance to even move.</p><p>Martín has never been quiet during sex, but he’s even worse now. Getting so vocal and so loud, hissing, screaming at the top of his lungs, his head perpetually thrown back from constant stimulation.</p><p>He clenches his eyes shut, gasping deeply with each breath, feeling his body grow feverish with desire as Andrés pummels him down into the mattress. The sharp pangs of pleasure reverberate all around him, too intangible and overwhelming, each time Andrés draws his hips back and slamming right back in.</p><p>Martín howls.</p><p>“Fuck, oh,<em> Andrés,</em> yes. <em>Andrés!</em> Fuck. Yes, yes. <em> Yes.” </em></p><p>Andrés fucks him viciously. Relentlessly. Each snap of his hips comes hard and fast, and Martín sobs each time he’s filled. It’s good, <em> it’s so good. </em> Heavenly because of how rough it all is, how Andrés is absolutely inhibited, staring at Martín with nothing but lust and desire in his eyes, using him for his own pleasure as he bucks his hips in quick, deep thrusts. </p><p>Martín is sure he could come from that alone. With Andrés fucking him as wild as he is, pushing him down into the sheets. Rendering him into a whimpering, sobbing mess.</p><p>But then there’s a hand wrapping around his cock, squeezing at the base, applying pressure. </p><p>His eyes fly open then, and he forces himself to look down, throwing his head back in disbelief when Andrés starts slowly stroking him, a wicked grin on the bastard’s face.</p><p>“Andrés.” he whimpers, slamming his head back down on the bed, shaking with determination to not buck his hips up. “Andrés, please, if you — if you keep — <em>god,</em> please I might — <em>Andrés, fuck,</em> I’m going to, <em>please</em> —”</p><p>But Andrés seems uninterested in showing him mercy. He only picks up his movements, stroking Martín’s cock faster and squeezing harder, bucking his hips ferociously, until the friction and heat become too unbearable and Martín tosses his head back violently, coming with a howl and a sob.</p><p>“Andrés, <em> Andrés.” </em></p><p>All his nerve endings are on fire, his body raw from overstimulation. He barely has time to catch his breath when Andrés lets go of his dick, opting instead to grab Martín by the hips, hard enough to bruise, and continues pounding into him, growling with each roll of his hips.</p><p>Martín hisses and whimpers, tears spilling down his face. He moans as Andrés grips him tighter, fucks him faster, with all abandon. Pulling out and pushing back in, making rough, animalistic grunts above him as their skin keeps slapping repeatedly.</p><p>It’s carnal and obscene and Martín takes it all.</p><p>After a couple more hard thrusts, Andrés leans down and buries his face against Martín’s neck, sinking into him one last time before coming with a filthy moan that makes Martín whimper. </p><p>
  <em> “Martín.” </em>
</p><p>Then the world seems to still once more as they lay in a panting, sweaty mess. Both delightfully content and spent. The only sounds being made are their labored breathing and Martín’s continuous sniffling.</p><p>Eventually, Andrés moves from where his face is buried against Martín’s neck, chuckling softly as he starts eagerly showering Martín’s face with kisses, gentle and sweet. </p><p>“You look absolutely debauched, cariño.” Andrés whispers, kissing him tenderly, wiping the tears still glistening on his face. “How are you feeling? Was I too rough on you?”</p><p>Martín groans and then sniffs, letting Andrés kiss him some more before he speaks. “Not rough enough.” he grunts, smiling when Andrés laughs, stealing quick pecks to his lips. “Werewolves heal fast, I told you.”</p><p>“Ah, but why would I be so careless with something so clearly precious to me?” Andrés murmurs against his mouth, his thumb caressing Martín’s cheek. “Only a fool would risk breaking such a gift.”</p><p>Martín sighs, his lip quivering as newfound tears find their way down his face. Andrés kisses them all away, his delicate sighs warming up Martín’s cheeks wonderfully.</p><p>“What’s the matter, querido? Are you sure you’re not hurt?”</p><p>Martín shakes his head and Andrés rolls off of him, both of them grunting when Andrés pulls out of him.</p><p>Now he's left with a soreness down there that feels completely delightful, and it makes him squirm happily in place, hoping that ache will stay there for weeks, wanting to still feel its lasting effects on him.</p><p>Then Andrés nudges him closer, dragging Martín in for an embrace and pressing their foreheads together. Martín only sighs and savors his affections, not knowing for sure how long it will last.</p><p>“Tell me what’s on your mind.” Andrés murmurs, cupping his face, laying chaste kisses over his nose and eyelids. “Come on now, where’s that lewd mouth I so adore you for, hm?”</p><p>Martín snorts. “You are still such a bastard.” he says, smoothing his hand up and down Andrés’s sweaty arm, simultaneously thrilled and dumbfounded that he’s able to do such a thing. </p><p>He tries not to melt when Andrés leans in for more kisses, smiling as he glides his tongue around Martín’s lips, letting it slither between the gap in his teeth.</p><p>They go at it for a while, lazily licking into each other’s mouths, sucking hungrily at tender lips.</p><p>Andrés gradually finds new places of Martín’s body to explore: hidden birthmarks and scars, tiny crevices and bumps. He kisses each one lovingly, discovering new, enticing sounds he can draw out of Martín with each touch of hungry lips and probing hands.</p><p>When he reaches the bite mark on Martín’s wrist, Andrés presses his longest, most reverent kiss there, smiling as though it were the part of Martín he cherished most. Then he quickly slips back up the bed, pressing their mouths together once more, and guiding Martín to wrap his arms around his neck.</p><p><em> “Dios,</em> if this is some kind of dream, I’m going to jump off a cliff when I wake up.” Martín gasps as soon as they break apart. Andrés gazes at him with soft, almost sleepy eyes, planting open mouthed kisses all over his face. Martín holds on to him tighter, trying not to sob. “Andrés. I don’t ever want for this to end.”</p><p>He hears Andrés hum, the heat of his breath warm against his cheeks. Martín moans softly when Andrés moves to kiss him again, pulling their bodies impossibly closer, as though yearning to merge into one.</p><p>Then he drags his fangs over the delicate skin of Martín’s shoulder, already bruised and marked thoroughly. But Martín keens to the feeling anyway, helplessly thrusting his hips forward, unable to control himself. </p><p>“Not a dream, perrito.” Andrés murmurs, reaching for Martín’s cock while they kiss. He leisurely strokes it back into hardness, and Martín whines with unprecedented ecstasy as Andrés moves on top of him, grinning so wide his fangs glint in the dark. “And who says it has to end?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i will never write graphic smut again jsyk</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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